


The Rake's Revenge

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Bodice-Ripper, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Humor, Miscommunication, Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Past Abuse, Polyamory, Protectiveness, Regency Romance, Revenge, Self-Discovery, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: The Red Viper, notorious rake and gambler, scandalizes the ton by winning Sansa Stark in a game of Loo from her guardians, and captors, the Lannisters.“He will want you for a mistress, of course,” Cersei says gleefully, as she shoves Sansa’s meagre belongings into her trunk, “What else would a man like him want with a young maiden like you, with no good family to your name?”





	1. The Winning Hand

**Author's Note:**

> A Regency romp, of dubious authenticity and doubtful edification.

 

 

Sansa Stark has become used to being woken in the tender hours of the night and called to do the bidding of Marquis Joffrey Baratheon, her one time betrothed and the grandson of her guardian Lord Tywin Lannister; to being asked to clean and cook and mend and do all such things that she was never supposed to do, as a young lady of a once great house.

But Sansa is no longer so prideful as she was a girl, and she is happy to put her hands to work, to get down on her knees alongside the servants; if only, she believes, it were not under the orders of such a vile boy as Joffrey, and in the house owned by the very people who helped ruin the good reputation of her family, who sent her sweet father to his death.

She tugs on her dress; too small and ragged, it leaves her ankles bare and pinches underneath her arms and across her chest. She drapes her faded shawl over her shoulders, trying to cover the large expanse of skin that the meagre fabric of the dress reveals. The servant who has come to wake her is knocking so frantically at the door of her cold attic room that she has no time to put up her hair so she leaves it as it is, in a long and untidy braid.

No one will be looking at her anyway, what needs she smarten herself for good company.

But when she leaves her room the servant says that she is to go to the drawing room, not the kitchens or the hallway, or the scullery. And she can hear, from the top of the stairs, the sound of men’s laughter and the clink of decanter against glass, smell the scent of pipe smoke drifting upwards.

She swallows her shame and walks down to meet her newest humiliation.

In the drawing room five men sit around the table with five hands of cards in front of them and a small pile of coins in the centre. She recognises Lord Willas Tyrell, Lord Dontos Hollard, and Lord Petyr Baelish the Chancellor of the Exchequer who sits next to Joffrey and watches her with an eager gaze. But the other man has his back to the door and she cannot see his face. He has dark, curling hair and wears a richly worked jacket.

Joffrey is more in his cups than she has ever seen him. His eyes bulge red, his chin is smeared with spit. He can barely keep himself upright in his seat, swaying like a metronome.

“Ah, here she is, my last betrothed. Come here, darling, and meet your new guardian.”

Joffrey beckons her over. There is movement in a corner of the room and Sansa sees that Cersei is here too, her cheeks red with wine, grinning like she has heard the very best jape.

Lord Baelish has spoken to her several times while visiting, when he was able to find her in some spot of the house where no one else could hear them, of coming to her aid, because of the love he bore her mother. He has sworn that he will find a way to spirit her away from here; has he achieved this aim? She doesn’t really want to be taken into his care, she doesn’t trust him or the way he looks at her sometimes, but surely anything is better than staying _here_?

“He has won you in a game of Loo,” Joffrey announces, cutting through her thoughts, “though he might have bought you for a few farthings, your true worth is so little. But I do so enjoy a good gamble.”

He sneers at the man across from him whose face Sansa has still not seen, mocking both him and her.

He does not seem to be speaking of Lord Baelish at all.

“You should have seen his eyes light up when he found out you still had your maidenhead,” Joffrey jeers and Sansa can feel her eyes go hot with tears, her stomach shake.

She will not cry in front of him, she will not give him that.

Lord Tywin, who normally curbs the worst impulses of his grandson, is away on urgent business. Tyrion, who has saved her several times from Joffrey’s japes, is not apparent, and must be drinking the night away at one of his gentleman’s clubs. Cersei, who is ever indulgent of her son, who seems to revel sometimes in his cruelty and madness, has evidently done nothing to stop him tonight. Why would she? Cersei has always told Sansa what a burden her presence is here, how the very sight of her turns her stomach.

Sansa, and her honour, have been sold in a game of Loo.

How sordid; how unbearable.

And then the man who has bought her stands up and turns around. He bows to her and says her name but her ears cannot hear, she can barely gasp her next breath.

For she recognises this man; she has heard of him; has had him pointed out to her by her brother years ago, who warned her vehemently of his reputation.

The Red Viper.

To be sold to such a man!

Sansa’s chin trembles, her insides go cold. I must be brave, she thinks, brave like my mother.

“Come along, my dove. You shall need to pack your belongings.” Cersei says, taking her by the hand from the room and up the stairs, digging her nails cruelly into the flesh of Sansa’s palm.

Sansa feels as if she did not truly wake up this night, as if she sleepwalks through a horrible dream. But such has been her life since her sweet father died.

“He will want you for a mistress, of course,” Cersei says gleefully, as she shoves Sansa’s meagre belongings into her trunk. “What else would a man like him want with a twenty year old maiden like you, with no good family to your name?”

She moves closer and takes Sansa by the chin, staring at her with her cold eyes.

“He will get you with child, like all his mistresses, his bits of muslin, and then abandon you to your fate. It is only what you deserve, my dear, for being such a prideful, rotten child. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lady.” Sansa replies.

Cersei sweeps out of the room with a laugh.

To be a mistress abandoned with a babe is to be ruined; Sansa knows this, she is not a silly little fool like she once was, dreaming of grand stories and dashing heroes.

But, she thinks, trying to find a slim silver lining, hasn’t she always wanted to be a mother? Wouldn’t a babe of her own be sweet? Perhaps she is still that foolish little girl.

Or she might die in childbed, like her mother. Would that be better than wasting away here, than being ruined by Joffrey as he has always threatened to do?

She shakes her head to clear such morbid thoughts.

She retrieves her dearest possession, the sampler in her mother’s stitch that she hid so carefully in her room so that no one could find it and destroy it, and tucks it inside her skirts. _Stand up straight, my girl_ , she hears her mother’s voice say. _Brush off those tears_.

Sansa has only herself, and her own wits, to rely on now.

Only what little she has to offer: her courtesies, her faded beauty.

Her body.

If he has had many mistresses perchance he is a good lover and he will not hurt her, as Joffrey threatened to do on their wedding night. But what does she know of lovers, and of what men want of the women in their beds?

“You must make him fall in love with you,” Jeyne, the maid who has been her one true friend here, whispers to her as they embrace farewell in the hallway.

But Sansa knows that is impossible.

She is not the kind of girl that any man falls in love with anymore, she has never been.

 

*

 

Sansa has not been treated kindly, Oberyn knows; and she will be frightened by all that she has heard of his reputation, his mistresses and bye-blows. Thank the gods then for Ellaria who, of the both of them, has always been the better at soothing skittish maidens. Ellaria says it is because he tends to dash in too quickly, like he is fighting a duel for their hearts; and to this he always replies that if she has a problem with the opening act of his lovemaking she may easily find herself a better lover elsewhere.

“Men, and their fragile pride,” Ellaria says in return, throwing down her fan in frustration.

And invariably he then slips under her petticoats, to show her that he knows just how much she enjoys his _pride_ , and to prove his willingness to better himself.

Oberyn is not a patient man.

This has served him well on many occasions – on the battlefield, with pistols at dawn, in races upon horseback, when rushing to the aid of several women in peril – but it will not do when a softening of the heart of a maiden of tender years, a soothing of long-time fears, is the desired outcome.

He helps Sansa onto the carriage, her hand trembling like a little bird in his, looking as wan as someone close to death. He tries to smile warmly at her. He tries to tamp down his fury at that Lannister worm, Joffrey, masquerading as a Baratheon, and the whole rotten family; at their appalling treatment of the Stark heiress; at the utterly abominable way they had treated his dear sister Elia, whose loss still burns in his gut like hot coals. But Sansa does not look up from her feet and, as the carriage leaves the street, she gasps a tiny gasp and faints in a slump on the seat.

 _Dash it_ , he says, and leaps over to help her upright.

Her body feels so light in his arms, her breath shallow like a rabbit. Her braid hangs down over his shoulder, like a coil of the softest rope she has flung off towards dry land looking for someone to save her.

Thank the gods they will arrive posthaste at his lodgings and he can cover her up with blankets and give her a hot drink to warm her. Thank the gods that Ellaria will soon be there to scold him, to comfort her; that Sansa will be safe now under their protection.

Thank the gods for his skill at cards.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, which should be updated soon: The Viper’s Lair, in which our heroine finds herself in a house of ill-repute...
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	2. The Viper's Lair

 

 

Sansa revives with the jolt of the carriage when it stops at their destination; she revives to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around her, and yelps in fear before she can stop up her throat. Then whimpers and hides her face, because a man cannot want yelping from the mistress he has bought and paid for.

The man in question fumbles back away from her, onto the other seat, and hands her a handkerchief.

“Are you alright, Lady Stark? You gave me quite a fright.”

He smiles warmly at her but she does not trust smiles. He is handsome, she has realised, far more handsome than Joffrey; dark where Joffrey was fair; with thick black hair, a strong patrician nose and a pleasingly wide grin; but beauty can hide any manner of sins, she has come to learn.

“My paramour Ellaria Sand will be waiting inside, she is eager to make your acquaintance,” he says, Paramour must be the term for mistresses where is he is from, she thinks. His words are unbearably cruel. Why must he use her presence to taunt his current mistress? Just what kind of abode has he brought her to, with two mistresses vying for the title, what house of ill-repute _is_ this?

He steps out of the carriage and helps her down with a warm hand that she drops as soon as politely possible. Ellaria is, as he said she would be, waiting for them inside the entrance of the large town house. She is very beautiful, dark like him, her clothes richly coloured and exquisitely tailored.

Sansa does not know how to greet her properly; she has never met a mistress before. The other woman will not be happy with Sansa being brought here; and she might be furious, she might even attack her like women of blackened reputation are rumoured to do.

Surely no mistress would welcome another woman who threatened to steal her own position, even such a poor example as Sansa. She must somehow make it known that she does not _wish_ to supplant Ellaria; that she only wishes for a little room to sleep in and to work for her keep without being molested or asked to entertain horrible men.

She quickly decides to err on the courteous, to mollify any possible fury, and dips into a curtsey. But Sansa has not eaten for a day and a half, and has had a fright this evening, so when her head is down she starts to slump and cannot hold herself up.

Someone rushes over and catches her and when she looks up woozily she sees that it is Ellaria herself, and that her countenance seems concerned; and Sansa starts to cry out of shame and shock, at seeing someone look so askance on her behalf, even if it is a mummery.

It has been so long since someone was concerned for her.

Ellaria calls for two servants to help her and the three of them carry Sansa upstairs. Sansa might pay for this, she fears, this moment of kindness, but she lets herself be held and lifted, leans into the sweet-smelling shoulder of Ellaria, as the rich surroundings of the Red Viper’s lair slide past her fluttering eyes.

The room she is taken to is dark and hushed; she cannot tell its dimensions or which floor it might be on. The bed is soft, softer even than her bed had been at Winterfell Manor. Her dress is taken off and a nightgown of the thinnest, richest, linen and lace placed over her head. Oh yes, she will surely pay for this kindness tomorrow.

But for now, she’ll rest; she’ll save her energies for the troubles to come.

As Sansa drifts off to sleep she thinks she feels someone brushing back her hair, but surely that is just a phantom feeling from a dream, a memory of her long-lost mother.

 

*

 

Ellaria is incandescently angry at the manner of Sansa’s arrival at their town house and upon coming downstairs she cannot be mollified; she hits him over the head with her fan and stalks up and down the drawing room, her voice raised, her words the strongest.

Oberyn tells her that he had had no choice; that it is only by chance that he overheard tonight at the gentlemen’s club about the game of Loo, about Lord Baelish’s schemes to buy the daughter of his lost love and use her terribly.

He does not ask if she would have wished him to leave the girl there; because he knows that Ellaria is simply concerned and scared by Sansa’s swoon, by her condition. Sansa is still a rare beauty but she has been dressed in rags, starved, and put to work with little sleep. When she fainted in the carriage he saw a thin scar peeking out at the top of her back and he has had to put the picture at the very back of his mind lest he weep or rent his clothes, lest he go mad with it.

They had been planning to retrieve Sansa, debating various schemes, but they had not thought that they should have a chance before she reached her majority.

Eventually, with wine and a few firm embraces, Ellaria calms and comes to sit beside him on the couch.

“Poor lamb,” she says, “to be bought across a gambling table, by the Red Viper himself. She must be terrified.”

“We shall look after her,” he promises.

“Of course, my love,” she says, frowning kindly and brushing a hand over his forehead.

The events of tonight are bringing everything back to him; every detail of dear Elia’s cruel fate – his own race through the night, the sickening scene he arrived too late to stop, the savagery of the Lannisters – and Ellaria knows it; she has always been so perceptive, so loving. He hopes only to one day deserve her.

“You did well, my love, you did well,” she says and pulls his head down to rest in her lap. “She is safe now and we can begin to mend her, to help her. We can begin our revenge.”

 

*

 

Sansa wakes in heaven, in the softest bed, wearing the flimsiest of nightgowns, with the light of the morning streaming through two large windows.

And then she remembers just where she is, and who owns her.

Her eyes snap open. She is in a large room and there is a servant tending to the grate of the fire. It is a four-poster bed she has slept on and the room itself contains a chaise longue, an armchair, a writing desk, two armoires and a fine washstand.

The colours of the room and the other decorations are quite out of the ordinary however. The walls, and curtains of the bed, are a bright red; the flowers on the mantelpiece are a garish orange and pink, the oriental rug that covers the entirety of the floor swirls with all manner of bright shades. The furniture is of dark wood with brass embellishments and there are gleaming candlesticks on almost every surface.

There are also two paintings hanging on the wall, paintings that contain women in déshabillé. Of course she knows that paintings like this might hang on other, more proper, walls but the overall effect of the room turns them unbearably lurid.

This is the room of a mistress, by its look. She prays vainly that it is not Ellaria’s room; that she has not done her another insult by lying here in her own bed.

When she turns her head to the side she sees her mother’s sampler carefully placed on the nightstand and she snatches it up and hides it under the covers of the bed with her before it can be taken away.

“Should you like to dress now, my lady?” the servant asks, after turning around and bobbing into a curtsey.

To dress for work, the servant must mean. And by the quality of the light, Sansa must have slept half the morning away already; she will be behind on all her chores. For Sansa thinks it unlikely that the Red Viper will not also put her to work as the Lannisters have done. She is no delicate beauty anymore to be saved from hard graft, to have her hands kept neat from toil.

Maybe it is only in the evenings that he will – her heart patters in her chest at the very thought – _use_ her in other ways.

But when she inches out of bed the servant brings over a dress she has never seen before and, instead of leaving her to get ready herself, calls in another maid to help Sansa into it.

She sees only a glimpse of red satin, black ribbons and orange embroidery – colours that her mother would never have approved of and that would truly only be suitable for a masked ball – before they pull up her nightgown and start putting her into new undergarments that have appeared as well.

She is to be dressed like a slattern from the beginnings then, put into service from the start.

She tries to steel her nerves; to enjoy the simple pleasure of being tended to, of feeling fine fabrics against her skin; and not think of what will happen next, of how she is being trussed up for the slaughter.

But when the dress is fastened and an opaque fichu tucked into the top, and she is brought to the full length mirror to look, she realises that the dress and her new undergarments are not as revealing as she feared, that they are not snug or pinching, do not painfully push up her bosom.

It is only the colour of the outfit that is bold, not the fit or the look. She will be able to face him with her dignity, at least at the beginning.

The maid takes her plait down and starts brushing through her hair gently. It is down to her hips now. Joffrey had threatened to cut it but she always managed to distract him from his purpose. Even when she was whipped for it it was worth it to keep her hair out of pride, a way of defying him, and a connection to her mother, rather than any great vanity.

The maid pins the front of it and leaves some of the length loose just like Sansa used to wear it as a girl. She is led out of the room and downstairs to meet her fate. The hall of the house is decorated similarly to her bedroom; the carpet a rich red, like blood.

Ellaria is waiting alone for her in the drawing room. She stands up when Sansa enters and ushers her inside.

“I see that you’ve found the dress I left out for you, it suits you well apart from the colour, my lady.” She smiles so kindly. Does a smile like that only hide cruelty beneath? Sansa vainly prays that it does not.

“It is an old dress of mine truthfully, we were not expected your arrival, and I know that it doesn’t quite suit your lovely complexion nor that perfect shade of your hair but we shall have the dressmakers round posthaste for a visit tomorrow to fix you up with a suitable wardrobe, I promise.”

Sansa tries not to think about what a _suitable wardrobe_ might entail.

“I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, my lady,” she stresses.

“I imagine that it is quite frightening and strange for you coming to a house like this, with different customs than you are used to, starting fresh someplace new.” Ellaria says.

Sansa nods nervously.

“But I want you to know that you are safe here, that the Lannisters and the Baratheons cannot touch you or hurt you anymore. Prince Oberyn Martell takes his duties very seriously and your safety and comfort are of upmost concern to him. He is out today but shall be home for dinner tonight, I know that he is eager to see you and he will be glad to see a little more colour in your cheeks this morning.”

Sansa blushes, calling even more attention to her cheeks. She has been calling him the Red Viper in her mind so often she has forgotten that he has another name.

Her brother had told her that it was rumoured that he was the brother and heir apparent of the Prince of the country called Dorne, that he was extraordinarily rich but amused himself by spending time with the lowest of the low. That he was an incorrigible rake who left broken hearts and ruined women in his wake; a gambler unmatched for daring; and a man who had fought, and won, too many duels to be fit for polite society.

 _He amuses them_ , her brother had told her, _he is exotic, exciting, extraordinarily charming; his scandals thrill the ton, and they tolerate him for the entertainment he provides._

To be a _mistress_ of such a man!

“I’d like you and I to be friends, my lady, Sansa,” Ellaria says, “and I want you to know that you may come to me for help with anything at all, for comfort and for understanding. We want you to be happy here and I shall be very disappointed if I come to find out that I could have been doing more to make you feel at ease.”

Sansa does not want _anyone_ to feel disappointment on her behalf, to disappoint them in turn. But she knows that she invariably will. How can she tell what Ellaria wants from her? This is all so strange, two mistresses of the same man sitting pleasantly in a room together.

Sansa has been bought and paid for like a– like a– _horse_ ; and if horses do not live up to the expectations that they have been sold under, the terms, then they are _removed from service_. If only she knew exactly what Joffrey had offered, the lies he had told about her and her particular charms, she might know better what to expect of her, what the Red Viper wishes from her truly.

“Thank you, my lady, you really are too kind,” she says, instead of sharing any of her worries with Ellaria, who cannot wish to hear them.

“Now, it is a good time for us to break our fasts I think. I shall go and see what might be causing the delay in the kitchens.”

As she waits for Ellaria to return, Sansa glances around the room at the art and the fine furnishings. All is quiet until a door opens somewhere down the hall and she suddenly hears the sound of feminine laughter, japing and song. Has he a whole _harem_ here? Is that the way things are done where he is from? If he has so many mistresses surely he shall not want to use her every night.

They do sound like they are having fun, she thinks. And she cannot hear a male voice in there, with Prince Oberyn himself away as well. So perhaps it is only themselves they are entertaining; perhaps, if she is good, and approaches them in the right way, with utmost humility and the understanding that she is an usurper of sorts, they might welcome her occasionally to sit with them and feel the comfort of feminine company.

Someone in there is playing the pianoforte and by the tone it is a marvelously built pianoforte. Sansa so _longs_ to play the pianoforte again. Her father used to tell her that she had the sweetest skill with it, and she got such joy from playing for others. She remembers playing when Joffrey came to call at Winterfell; thinking that she might make him fall in love with her. What a silly fool she was then and what a fool she is now, to think she might find any proper place here.

Ellaria returns to the room with three servants who bring with them trays of foodstuffs and a tea that warms the air with spices. A plate is placed in front of Sansa and Ellaria serves her, filling her plate with morsels of plain foods and two tiny lemon cakes.

“There’s lots more if you need it,” she says. “You are looking a bit thin, my dear, and we shall have to fatten you up,” she laughs gaily and then her face grows more serious. “You must regain your strength, Sansa. We know that you have had some trying times in the last few years.”

Sansa thanks her and dutifully eats what she is given, saving the lemon cakes, her favourites, until last. Ellaria sits back in her chair, looking pleased. Perhaps she truly only wants to fatten Sansa up so that she loses what little looks she has remaining, but that will take many more meals entirely so Sansa chooses not to care at the moment and enjoy a full meal for once.

“Is there anything you would like to learn while you are here, any diversion or schooling? I imagine your education might have been abruptly curtailed when you came into the care of the Lannisters,” Ellaria adds, before Sansa starts having an inner fit about the type of _schooling_ she could mean, the skills a mistress might need to learn.

“Please do not trouble yourselves over my education, my lady,” she pleads.

“You may rest for now, of course Sansa. But you will let me know if anything comes to mind, any subject you should wish to learn? We have many different tutors that visit the house regularly: painting, musicianship, embroidery, dance, appreciation of art, oratory, poetry composition,” she pauses and looks thoughtful, “gardening, fencing, archery when we are at our country estate, and riding there too.”

The education is not for her _own_ edification, Sansa realises now; she has been mistaken. The Red Viper must pride himself on the talents and accomplishments, the varied interests, of his mistresses. And Sansa is not particularly talented in any occupation; she must look very small next to the refinements of the other women.

“What should you or– or– Prince Oberyn Martell like me to learn, my lady, what particular subjects do you think would suit?”

Ellaria smiles, “Do you like to embroider, Sansa?”

“I do. My mother said I had an excellent stitch.” It is not boasting if she is simply reporting her mother’s own words; her mother had held lying to be one of the worst sins.

“Then we shall start there, and perhaps some light sketching too, while you regain your spirits.”

“You are too generous, my lady.”

“Ellaria,” she says, placing a warm hand over hers, looking at her with those beautiful, guileless eyes, “it would please me if you might call me Ellaria.”

“I shall do, my lady.”

“Now, you have had a busy day I think and you might quite like to lie down for a few hours before dinner, I imagine. One of the servants shall help you up to your room, and I shall see you later, Sansa.”

“Thank you, Ellaria,” she says and curtseys.

Dinner, and another audience with the Red Viper, awaits; and Sansa begs the Maiden and the Mother that she might only have the strength to get through it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be updated soon-ish: Mistress of Snakes, in which our heroine meets the Sand Snakes…
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	3. Mistress of Snakes

 

 

The dining room is just as richly decorated as the rest of the house, in reds and golds. A servant leads her to her seat, opposite Ellaria and next to the setting at the head that must for Oberyn, who is late according to his mistress. But it is a long table and there are eight other settings – does he have _eight_ mistresses? Is it because he is a Prince?

She stares at the fine napkin on her lap and sips at her water instead of looking at Ellaria, hoping that the garish colours of her own dress might make her disappear against the similar colours of the walls, a child’s foolish wish.

The clock on the hall chimes and voices approach. The door opens and a group of women – eight exactly – proceed inside the room. They are dressed in various colours and styles, although red and orange and gold are the most popular. Some of them are dark, two quite blonde, and one has startling short hair and is wearing, now that she looks closer, what looks like a man’s long shirt and waistcoat over voluminous breeches. Perhaps this is the style they wear in Dorne.

But oh, some of the women look so very _young_! Not _nearly_ old enough to be mistresses; he is a true _villain_ , this Red Viper; Sansa could cry.

The man in question appears at the door, ripping his gloves off with alacrity. A well-dressed villain; he is even more handsome than she thought yesterday in her fatigued state

He comes over to Ellaria and kisses her on the cheek and Sansa blushes at the impropriety. Then he notices _her_ and she quivers.

“Lady Stark,” he says, “you are looking much recovered already! My apologies for arriving so late,” and he bows and then circles back to the other end where the rest of his mistresses are. Is he going to kiss each of them, in turn, _now_?

“Lady Stark,” he continues, smiling broadly, “may I introduce to you my natural daughters? Or my brood of Sand Snakes, as I have affectionately named them, since the snake is one of the national animals of my homeland.”

His _daughters_!

“I know that there are many tales told of me, my lady, of my, hmm, how do they put it, my _harem_ , and I admit that is a useful occlusion on occasion, otherwise I might have a hallway full of visitors to court my daughters and I should get no rest at all.” He laughs and a few of the girls scoff prettily at him.

Now that she knows their _true_ identity it seems natural to her that they are daughters and sisters; just by the way they are sitting with each other, their airs; even if they look as if they do not all share the same mother. If Sansa herself bears him a child it pleases her to know that the child might have siblings, might grow up here in luxury and apparent happiness.

“The four on the left are mine own daughters too, Sansa.” Ellaria says, smiling proudly “Elia, Obella, Dorea and Loreza”

“And this is Obara, Tyene, Nymeria and Sarella.” The prince says.

“This is Lady Stark, of Winterfell, my loves,” he says to then, “she is now ward of House Martell, and I charge you all to treat her with kindness and great respect.”

Eight eyes fix on her, with varying moods and emotions. She can feel her cheeks go bright red. Surely they, especially the daughters he shares with Ellaria herself, will be furious with her coming here. And oh, why must he tell them that she is his _ward_ , can’t he call her his paramour? She does not like the underhand nature of it all, the fact that he has not yet told her what he wishes of her, the sense that this house holds secrets and intrigues she can hardly dream of.

Dinner is quiet. The others seem as fatigued by the day’s events as Sansa. The daughters, the Sand Snakes (and what a name for a group of young women! It is quite barbaric), are not outwardly rude to her but she does not know them well enough to parse their expressions, their little nudges and whispers to one another.

As dinner ends Sansa watches as a group of the sisters lean over to confer with one another and then the youngest of them, Loreza, gets up from the table and runs over to whisper in her mother's ear, who nods at what she has heard.

"My daughters are right," she says and turns to Sansa, "We have been dreadfully amiss, my lady, at not giving you a tour yet of your new home."

It is Tyene, one of his eldest daughters, who leads the tour, with Prince Oberyn and Ellaria happy to take the rear of the group. Little Loreza, who has the most beautiful of raven curls and Oberyn's own smile, takes Sansa's hand, and pulls her along with the group.

She is shown the drawing room, even though she has already seen it but she does not want to dash the enthusiasm of the girls, and they talk over one another as they explain its decorations: the painters of the works hanging on the walls; the visit to a bazaar in Dorne where Sarella chose the oriental rug; the pane of window glass that Obara broke when she was practising a cricket throw – she is only allowed to play cricket outside now, Tyene comments primly; and the patch on a couch where a puppy had gnawed upon the fabric when he had been accidentally shut up in this room before being rescued by Sarella who had trooped downstairs to investigate the noise.

Next they lead her to another drawing room, which is even grander than the first and contains a remarkably lifelike bust of Prince Oberyn that he seems oddly bashful about. After that is the library which Sansa stares at with awe, for it is even finer than the library at Winterfell. The girls talk about their favourite stories and books, Dorea mentions that their father is the very best at reading, giving the characters all such different voices in the telling; and Ellaria, who to Sansa's shame, notices her longing looks at the books, says that Sansa shall be allowed to borrow any book she likes and to sit and read in here to find a quiet place away from the Sand Snakes.

Sansa was not allowed to read while at the Lannisters, although Jeyne had smuggled a few books into her room that she read and reread by pilfered candlelight long into the night, happily forgoing her meagre sleep to immerse herself in another world. She resolves to take Ellaria up on her offer, even if it is not one made in good faith, because she feels starved for new stories.

The house, Sansa realises as she is led down lengthening corridors, takes up the same space as three townhouses put together and she notices where the walls have been knocked through and adjusted. But as they talk about the house, the daughters also mention the Martell's country house and the many houses - the palaces! - back in Dorne which they dearly miss. Sansa did not realise until she came here, quite how wealthy that Prince was. 

Sansa was once proud of her knowledge of courtesies and manners to fit all sorts of occasions but now she realises how mistaken she was at her own skill, how there were customs of other countries like Dorne that she had not thought to learn as well; it was small-minded of her, she thinks now.

The last few rooms - a gorgeous morning room drenched in the scent of the many exotic plants and vases of flowers scattered about; Oberyn's own office with handsome mahogany furniture and deep burgundy velvet curtains, which she peeks into from the doorway since his daughters seem suitably respectful and do not cross the threshold of their father's room; and the cozy parlour, still strewn with evidence of the daughters' occupations before dinner: schoolbooks, paper, games, ribbons, even a wooden sword like something Arya would have longed for – seem to flash before her eyes before Oberyn claps his hands together and announces, "To the music room!"

"For you all have far too high spirits to be able to sleep so soon, we shall need to tire you out," he says over their chatter.

Ellaria glances at Sansa with an indulgent smile as she is dragged by the hand by Dorea through the door. It is strange, but a good strangeness, to be around a happy family again, with a kind loving mother, after the Lannisters and their house.

The music room is just as impressive as the rest of the house and the pianoforte, one of the finest she has ever seen, gleams with polish and sits to the right of the parquet floor.

"A dance!" Loreza said, "Oh let us have a dance."

"Us older members of the household shall sit down and digest our meals, I think," Ellaria says, motioning Sansa to the seat next to her.

Sansa is relieved, for knows that she is still weak. Having eaten a day of full meals here now she is beginning to realise how dreadfully the Lannisters had kept her. She knew while she was living there that the servants were given their meals downstairs – where she herself was not allowed to go being of a strange status somewhere between ward and servant – and that, though at first she was welcomed at the dinner table with the other Lannisters, soon she was not allowed there either and had her scarce meals brought to her room instead; but somehow she had still presumed that all of those who worked in the house were living on the same meagre amounts as Sansa, an assumption that she now thinks might have been mistaken.

The Sand Snakes have lined up in two rows of four and Oberyn has taken a seat at the pianoforte, with much theatrical fussing about of his jacket and hands that made his daughters giggle. Sansa does not recognise the swirling sounds of the music he plays, its dips and rises and flourishes, but it perfectly suits the dance that they now perform in which each of the girls in turn makes her way down in between the two rows, dancing with each other girl, turning and twirling.

Once a full set has been completed the tempo of the music quickens and each girl is span round and round by the other girls with such alacrity they start to laugh, and the others have to help guide them to the next partner lest they stumble out of the dance. Elia twirls so hard she falls in a laughing heap on the floor before she is pulled back up and Sansa cannot help but smile too. Then Nymeria falls too and when she gets up she staggers like she is deep in her cups, sending Oberyn into a fit of laughter that Sansa shares.

Ellaria pats her on the leg, "They are wonderful are they not? I am quite jealous sometimes, as I myself did not grow up with sisters."

"I had a sister, Arya," Sansa says, sad to feel the pleasure she had felt at watching the sisters fade away, but pleased somehow to be able to talk about dear Arya, "we did not always get on well but there was something special about our relationship compared to that with my brothers. She had a spirit similar to your daughters, my lady. She was very good at making me laugh or exasperating me enough that I forgot to be polite and proper, to the shame of my tutors."

"I hope their behaviour does not shock you," Ellaria says, nodding at the girls, "I imagine you were a very proper child,"

"It doesn't," she shakes her head firmly, "and I was," Sansa says, part of her feeling that she should not speak so freely with Ellaria, that her words might be used against her; the other part not caring - for not to trust anyone would be equally as painful, and the happiness of these daughters has loosened something inside of her. And anyway the whole day has felt like a dream, even with the worries that have come along with her new position, and she is half convinced she will wake up back in her attic room with the Lannisters tomorrow.

"My mother used to find me still awake in the evenings because I had been practising my curtsey for hours in my room, bowing very seriously to the mirror as if I had a crowd in front of me," Sansa tells her, "and I can remember correcting my brothers on their courtesies when I was but a child of four who cannot have been that accomplished either. Oh, and heavens forbid I got a tiny smudge of dust on one of my dresses, I would be inconsolable at the thought that someone might see me at less than my best."

The dance has ended, the girls have resumed their seats, and Oberyn now plays something light and uncomplicated on the pianoforte. Sansa watches his hands make their way across the keys, admiring the reach of his fingers and how it makes it so easy for him to make certain chords, how small the keyboard looks in front of his arms.

Once he has finished, with a little flourish that shows off his skill to the delight of his daughters and a little huff of knowing laughter from Ellaria, he turns to Sansa, who sits up straight in her seat, realising that she has been slouched in relaxation.

“Should you like to play, Sansa? I imagine an accomplished lady such as you must have taken many lessons with the pianoforte.”

“I did, but I couldn’t possibly–”

“Oh, but please do! Mine own daughters have never had much patience for the instrument and I should like to hear it played by someone with a fellow appreciation.”

Sansa has of course realised now that the tutors and education which Ellaria mentioned yesterday are for the Martell daughters, and not some secret cache of accomplished mistresses hidden away in the house.

"He speaks truly," Ellaria says, "I am all fingers and thumbs with the pianoforte. But you do not have to play if you do not wish it."

Sansa _does_ wish to play the pianoforte; and to share in the enjoyments of the evening, having been a little jealous of the daughters' dance even as she also felt too old to join in, though she realises that several of the older daughters are probably her own age. But it is so long now since she last played, she worries that she will disappoint them.

At least then; a small, mean part of her thinks; she will find out what happens to her _here_ when she is a disappointment.

At the Lannisters, Cersei favoured withdrawing dinner from her and Tywin, an icy coldness, a stern look akin to something from a nightmare and a furious, raised voice. Joffrey liked to mock her and jeer at her, to do cruel things in front of her like harming the kitchen cat, and, on occasion and while no one else was there to witness him, to whip her with his riding whip, sometimes even to tug the laces of the back of her dress loose in order to hit her right on the skin, to leave a mark.

To her shame, Sansa still bears scars from his treatment, scars which Oberyn will surely soon discover. Will they disgust him; will they make him discard her? What man wants a scarred woman in his bed?

She smiles nervously at him as he removes himself from the pianoforte towards a large armchair nearby, and she takes her seat, adjusting the height of the stool. Ellaria stands next to her to turn the pages.

There is a pile of scores on the top of the pianoforte and Sansa flicks through them quickly, realising with a sinking heart that she does not recognise any of the pieces, and barely any of the names of the composers which must, she thinks, be Dornish.

“I have yet to practice any of these particular pieces, my prince, so you shall forgive me if my playing is a little stilted at the start.”

“Of course,” he says and leans back indolently on his seat, breeches tightening across his firm thighs, arms hanging loose over the sides of the chair.

The glance she makes towards him gives her a vision of louche handsomeness, and suddenly she can see quite clearly how he might seduce a woman, make her gift him her honour.

“At your leisure, my lady,” he says softly.

 

*

 

The piece she plays, one of Oberyn’s favourites, brings him to tears in moments. Such tenderness, such _sadness_ in her mien, such skill for a little maiden such as her.

Seeing her here now, in his home, wearing Ellaria’s dress, he fears he is half in love with her already. But she is such a skittish little thing. He dare not approach her for moons yet, if ever. And he will not let himself approach her until she has independent means and is no longer relying on his guardianship, until she turns twenty one and inherits what is left of her family’s fortune. Her presence in his house, and his life, will be a sweet torment until then. He will have to develop patience on her behalf, a worthy motivation.

His day has been frustrating. He wishes he could have lounged about like Ellaria here, talked with Sansa; rather than tramping the streets of King’s Landing, back and forth between lawyer’s office, coffee house and brothel. The last was not a visit for pleasure but information. Ellaria does not like it if he sleeps with another woman without discussing it together first, without checking that the other woman is not compelled to it by unhappy means, or without her there too, and he is happy to follow her wishes, for King's Landing does not have the same customs as Dorne, the same freedoms for women.

Today he has heard from Willas Tyrell’s favourite whore that Tywin had returned home only a few hours after the game of Loo and was furious that Oberyn had spirited Sansa away. He might have turned his gaze to that reprehensible little shit Lord Baelish, if he was looking for the man truly responsible, since the game had been entirely his idea.

It had been rumoured that the Stark fortune might not have disappeared as thoroughly as the Lannisters had proclaimed when they took Sansa in out of the _goodness_ of their own hearts, but those were just rumours. Tywin’s fury said otherwise. It implied that there _was_ a fortune, a fortune that Sansa would inherit in three moon’s time, providing she was not yet married.

After both Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon had died (and Oberyn was still trying to gather proof that they had both been murdered on behalf of the Lannisters – for he feared how low that family would stoop) the Court of Chancery had appointed Tywin as one her guardians, one of the guardians of the Stark inheritance; and the other, Lord Howland Reed, had been off on one of his botanical adventures across the seas and supposedly sending back regular correspondence that agreed with Tywin’s decisions.

The Lannisters were certainly at fault for the duel that killed Ned. They had manoeuvred him into a room with a half-naked Myrcella at the King’s Landing ball where Sansa’s betrothal had been announced. Joffrey’s second had been the Mountain for godssake! Everyone knew that Ned would never have agreed to a duel to the death, that he would agree only to duel ‘til first blood.

Ned Stark would only agree to a duel at all because he was a too-honourable man that thought of the honour of his _own_ daughters when Cersei came crying to him about how Myrcella was now ruined. But no one there, none of the seconds and bystanders, were actually on Ned’s side and _they_ had said afterwards that he had agreed to a duel to the death. An assertion that no one else would question in court for fear of the precedence this would set for questioning the outcome of duels, which had always been the nobility's method of choice for solving arguments.

It was only a few weeks later that the house at Winterfell burnt down, while Sansa was en route in her carriage, having finally persuaded the Lannisters to let her leave for home. The fire, which had killed her sister and two remaining brothers, after her mother and eldest brother Robb had been killed by highwaymen while travelling in the north.

Had the Lannisters killed the mother and brother, possibly; had they set the fire that murdered the remaining Starks and destroyed Winterfell estate and its forest, or was it just a terrible coincidence? Oberyn was still unsure; the Lannisters were not invulnerable, not all-seeing, and a fire looked overwhelmingly suspicious, at least to anyone who was not in their pockets, whose business was not entangled with theirs.

Gentlemen were not supposed to be in business but he knew that Tywin had a money source somewhere, that he had plans for the Winterfell estate, and Oberyn was going to find it. He was going to destroy the Lannisters and do it gladly, just as they had destroyed Elia and the Starks, and he would gift any fortune he recovered to Sansa, who deserved it and so much more for surviving her time in that den of rabid lions.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: An Afternoon in the Park: in which Ellaria finally corrects some of our heroines misunderstandings, and our hero misplaces his shirt…
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	4. An Afternoon in the Park

 

 

The next day, the weather is too glorious to sit around inside and so, after the promised visit from the dressmaker for Sansa, Oberyn rounds up his women to take a jaunt to the park.

They squeeze themselves into two carriages, six in one and five in the other, Sansa looking quite alarmed by the way her legs brush against his in the squashed space of their carriage. She has spent little time with men who are not Joffrey, with Lannister curs, so it is no wonder she is hesitant of him. He will do everything in his power, he swears again, to soothe her worries.

The park is larger and wilder than might be assumed by the designation of city park – there are woods and fields and natural ponds where some of the common folk still swim; and when you are in the very middle it almost feels like you are in the country, with barely a glimpse of the city buildings in the distance.

It makes him long to return to the wildness and open spaces of Dorne, but he is here in King’s Landing on the behest of his brother, and because he will not rest until he has his revenge against the Lannisters.

Sansa had not come down to breakfast at the same time as the rest of the household because Ellaria thought it wise to let her sleep a little longer, to help her recover.

“What do you think of Sansa, my darlings?” he had asked the table as he spread marmalade on his toast.

"She's sweet, and kind," Sarella said.

"I agree," said Nymeria.

“She’s very pretty,” Loreza said.

“Prettier than me?” he had pouted.

“Papa!” she had said, and he had gotten up from the table just to smother her in kisses and make her squirm.

How he loved his children when they were small. The doctors had said that Ellaria should not conceive again, and it was a long time since he had had another mistress who he might get with babe; he misses it.

Tyene – whose pious mien he still cannot believe sprung from his own loins – had said, “You get into trouble, with only Ellaria to curb you, mischief is too often at our door.”

He frowned, but she added, “Sansa will be good for you, for both of you. She’s a very proper lady.”

“Are you saying that I am not proper?” Ellaria queried, sipping pointedly at her tea.

“Mama! You know that I love you,” Tyene said, reaching out to hold her hand with such an anguished look on her face that perhaps he allowed that she _had_ inherited his ability to magnify his own emotions upon his face, for the purpose of receiving sympathy from others.

“I agree,” Obara said, “Sansa will be good for you, she will fit.”

“Be that as it may,” Ellaria said, and Oberyn fixed his eyes on her, they had yet to talk the two of them, about the possibility of a future that may include Sansa, but he should have known (and he had hoped) that Ellaria would be half in love with her as well, they have always shared the same tastes in women, “Sansa is not used to the ways of Dorne and she has not been treated well in her last home,” Ellaria explained, making sure to look at each Sand Snake in turn, “and she is younger sometimes than she looks. We must be careful not to frighten and confuse Sansa. She is only a ward here, nothing more, and Oberyn and I shall not make any overtures towards her until she has gained back her own inheritance.”

“So you will not kiss her?” Loreza asked, the concept of inheritance a little beyond her.

Loreza is of the age when romances are all she thinks about, dreams about, talks about. Any time she sees two people, of any sex, standing or walking together, she asks, in that plaintive little voice, “Mama, Papa, are they in _love_?”

This, as well as many other reasons, is why she and her sisters do not spend much time with people who are not from Dorne, if at all. The ton does not deserve his daughters, Oberyn believes, they are flowers that shall never be crushed by the cruel maw of society, and he and Ellaria also make sure to train them in the arts of self-defence, in fencing and racing horses and even light boxing, at their country estate. Yet all the skills in the world, he knows, would not have halted sweet Elia’s fate.

But he does not have time for gloomy thoughts here now in the park, where the servants have helped to set out blankets and a picnic by the side of the pond. The sun beats down on him and he basks in it like a housecat. Tyene is shading her pale skin with a parasol and Sansa is sitting off to the side under the shade of a tree looking like a vision from a painting, the lace of her bonnet curling so becomingly around her neck. He lets himself glance at her as she twists daisies together in her hands to form a chain, Dorea watching rapt as she does it.

What a glorious day, there is barely any breeze at all. He shuts his eyes and lounges back, but stillness is not something that comes naturally to him and so he soon jerks to his feet.

“I think I shall go for a swim,” he says, and starts to tug off his waistcoat and then pull up his shirt.

“No! Papa!” His daughters scream, some of them delightedly.

“Must you make a scene,” Ellaria sighs, snapping open her fan; even as her eager eyes, he can’t help but notice, fix on his bared skin as he strips off the clothes on his upper body.

His lack of attire likely scandalises the sheltered Sansa too, he realises regretfully, as he pulls off his boots and socks and throws himself in only his breeches into the cool waters of the pond.

 

*

 

It is a beautiful day; they have just sat down beside the pond and the spread of picnic foods promises a glorious lunch – living with the Martells could make her a glutton, Sansa fears.

She has not been on an outing in years, she barely ever left the house when she lived with the Lannisters and here she is now, on her second and a half day with the Prince and his household, sitting in the park surrounded by nature and glorious vistas of charm and delight.

It had been a slow journey in the carriage here. First, Oberyn had dashed out when they were nearing the park, to talk to a Dornish man that he recognised and then, once they had entered the park itself he had spotted a labourer struggling with a broken wagon and he had bounded out to help.

Sansa stared in disbelief as she saw him toil at its wheel, shrugging off his waistcoat nonchalantly so that he could bend underneath the axle. The labourer had given him three apples for his trouble, two of which he sliced with his pocket knife and handed around the carriage, and one which he threw, gently, to a little girl walking near the path with her tired-looking mother.

Then there was the runaway kite that he had grabbed and ferried back to a group of boys, and the servant girl he had got out and spoken with for quite some minutes, calling Ellaria down to help him talk to her to. Sansa was quite intrigued and could not imagine what they were all speaking of, until Ellaria returned and explained that she was looking for work and they had told her of another Dornish household that searched for new maids.

His daughters had only sighed fondly at the delays, the elder helping to distract the younger ones who were starting to fidget, with clapping games, and riddles that Sansa herself had quite a lot of fun trying to guess.

It was only late last night, after she recovered from the relief of finding out that the girls were his daughters, that she had realised how _many_ different women he must have lain with, how many different mistresses he had had. Was he good to them, as good to them as he is to their daughters?

Theon, her father’s ward, would have made some shocking jape about the Prince's _stamina_ to make her brothers laugh, she thinks, were they still all alive at Winterfell. Sansa occasionally heard snatches of such bawdy japes before her mother whisked her away from the vicinities of his company. She had danced with Theon at that notorious ball, she remembers, before he fled back to the Greyjoy’s after her father’s death.

She had asked him there which girls he planned to dance with and he had said that his only aim of the evening was to make her blush, something he achieved within the first few moments of their own waltz when he had told her how tiny her waist was and how it made a man holding her feel so very strong.

Joffrey had questioned her on his words when she danced with him afterwards and only later did she admit to herself that Joffrey’s manner had been too forceful and rude towards her, blaming her entirely for Theon’s personality; how his later cruelties could have been observed if only she had not been so blinded by her dreams of a Duke and his handsomeness, a comeliness that now only looks ordinary and small.

Earlier this morning she had been measured for a whole wardrobe, as Ellaria had promised, with no strange _adjustments_ to the clothing discussed, or lewd comments. She wore her new shift as they measured her and she was glad it was more opaque than her old ones, lest Ellaria and the two Sand Snakes with her, and the dressmakers, might see her scars. The servants, she realised only then, must have seen them yesterday when they were dressing her, and they probably reported back to their masters. Yet nothing has been said yet, perhaps they have yet to tell.

All this fuss was a little like getting her trousseau prepared, back when she had believed she was soon to become Marchioness Baratheon. Thank the gods, Sansa thinks now, that this never happened.

The one consolation of remaining his mistress would be that he would not allow her to become someone else’s husband as well; that a man like the Red Viper is unlikely to want to share his women. Sansa does not like uncertainties, surprises, anymore; she wishes only for firm footing and a clear path ahead.

The dressmakers had brought a ready-made dress with them and Ellaria had apologised for its poor fit due to the lack of warning ahead of Sansa's initial arrival, and Sansa wanted to tell her that it fitted better than any she had worn in years, that the Lannisters seem to delight in dressing her in too-small clothes. But Sansa has been silent when the Martells have made any veiled references to her time with the Lannisters. It would not be polite to complain; nor wise when she was relying on another family’s generosity; they would only think that she might scorn them too, that Sansa was ungrateful.

She watches Ellaria who sits near Oberyn on the blanket, and who sews a piece of delicate embroidery. Her mother would not have liked Ellaria, she would have used veiled comments to show her disapproval of her and her status. Sansa thinks that Ellaria is possibly the most beautiful woman she has ever seen, even though she is not classically handsome. She has a lovely long neck, a trim figure, and tapered fingers. Her hair is dark and shines with the sunlight, her cheekbones are high and her lips seem to have a natural blush to them. The both of them are very handsome, the Prince and his paramour, but she feels more nervous to look at Oberyn lest he look back.

Yet she cannot help but stare at him as he gets up and suddenly starts to undress, saying he is for a swim in the pond!

Seeing his body – and she has never seen any man without a shirt, only a few glimpses of her brothers when they were youths racing across the hall to avoid their weekly baths – is shocking. She did not know that men’s chest could be light furred, that they had such _muscles_. His skin is as dark on his shoulders as it is on his face, and she wonders suddenly at whether he must spend a lot of time under the sun wearing little, or if that is just his natural colour and continues even underneath the clothes that still remain as he leaps into the pond with a large splash.

Oh, but how can she please such a man! What would it be like to share his bed – she feels frightened at the thought but also an odd quivering lower in her stomach, which she takes as some new flavour of fear.

Sansa stands up swiftly and walks away, her feet wishing to run but propriety not allowing it. She hurries forth and eventually finds a little copse in the space between two trees to hide inside, feeling very foolish.

But Ellaria has followed her, and joins her.

“Do you fare well, Sansa? You looked so troubled when you dashed off like that.” She looks so _concerned_.

Sansa squeezes her hands together, and then brings one up to touch her forehead. She is going to cry, she knows it.

“Please, Sansa, tell me what ails you, I cannot help you if you do not,”

“I have never met a– a– paramour before, a mistress before,” she blurts out, “I do not know, Ellaria, what Prince Oberyn Martell wishes of me. I do not know how to prepare. I do not know how to be a mistress!”

Ellaria’s face is utterly shocked, “Oh my dear child, oh my darling, you are not his mistress! Oh, what a fuddle and a mess,” she takes Sansa’s hands in hers gently and then pulls her into a hug when Sansa starts shaking with tears of relief and confusion.

“He, _we_ , brought you here as our ward, nothing more. He has no designs on your virtue. He is the most honourable of men, truly, though his reputation does not suggest it, I know,” she says.

Sansa hides her face in the soft skin of Ellaria’s neck.

“But you had just reason to be cautious, Sansa,” she explains, “it was wise of you to consider what might be expected of you, to reason out a scenario, to try and prepare.”

Ellaria stops and holds Sansa by the shoulders now, making sure she does not turn away. “It is _us_ , I especially, who is at fault. We should have made it plain from the very first, the moment you crossed the threshold of our house, but you were in such a state that I did not think it so wise to pepper you with information.”

Sansa is breathing easier now, and Ellaria links their arms and leads her out of the shade and towards the lake, “I promise that you are not his mistress and he will not treat you ill. You have seen how he treats his daughters, yes? How he treats me? He has a tender heart despite his outward show of derring-do and japing; and events in his past have made him a true champion of womenkind, of maidens.”

They have moved close enough now to the lake to see him splashing and gambolling about in the water, as his daughters dip their feet in the very edges and splash one another.

“The troubles he has gotten into to save a woman, the stories I could tell!” Ellaria looks with such fondness at her man, and then turns back to Sansa, “Sweet child,” she cups her face and says, in the manner of a vow, “you are _safe_ here, I promise.”

Sansa feels tears roll down her cheeks at the emotion in Ellaria’s voice, the passion and the concern. She _wants_ so desperately to believe her, but it has been only a few days…

“But why, Ellaria, why make me a ward at all? How had he heard of me, why did he go to the trouble? He did not know my family well, we were not a close friend to Dorne.”

“Everyone knows of your family, and Dorne has few friends,” she says, and there is a layer of meaning that Sansa does not understand, “And as for why, he will explain more in time, but Oberyn is not a _friend_ of the Lannisters, not at all, he knows well what curs they are. A young woman who was so very dear to him was treated abominably by that family and their agents. It is not my story to tell, else I would explain, but please believe me, he only wishes them ill. Thus, when he heard of your troubles, and had an opportunity to save you with that game of Loo, his chivalrous nature, his drive, would not allow you to remain there if he might prevent it.”

Ellaria settles back, as if she has not spoken of a wondrous kindness, as if she has not shaken the foundation of Sansa’s beliefs.

A _ward._ As a ward she might be safe; she might spend leisurely hours, and more time with the Sand Snakes, though Sansa still feels as if she is a little apart from the daughters, in Oberyn and Ellaria’s eyes, compared to what she is used to of wards and children. Her own family’s wards, Theon and Jon, had spent most of their time right alongside the Stark children.

She has tried so hard not to remember her siblings, knowing that it is ill of her to not think of them, to not remember, but hurting so whenever their fates are in her thoughts: wild little Arya; serious Bran; her eldest brother Robb; rapscallion Rickon; and Jon, who was lost two years ago in the Navy abroad, the news of which had made her father shut himself in his office for almost a week.

After her illuminating conversation with Ellaria, and over the next few weeks; she realises that a very small part of her is sad not to be a mistress, someday. She is unlikely to receive any marriage proposals, being a penniless woman of a ruined house. And Oberyn _is_ a handsome, accomplished man; a man who _does_ , as Ellaria had said, treat the women in his life with courtesy and kindness.

She saw them kissing, Ellaria and Oberyn, the morning of that visit to the park, in the garden through the window of her bedroom, though she has tried very hard since not to _dwell_ on the scene.

She was horrified at first, at the obscenity of such actions _outside_ where anyone could see; but then for some reason she kept _watching_ , watched him hold Ellaria's head in his hands so tenderly, watch him whisper in her ear with a look of such softness, watch him kiss her in the tender skin behind her ear, tilt her face to kiss her mouth, and then move his grip to her waist – Sansa suddenly remembered that last cursed ball at King’s Landing, whose entire events she has tried to dash from her mind, remembered the way that some of the men who danced with her had held her so firmly about the waist, the way they would lead her across the floor, their arms strong across her back and their nervous breath tickling the skin above her collarbones.

Yes, Sansa is a little sad not to be a mistress someday, even if to think that thought makes her feel like she should pray to the Seven for forgiveness, and apologise to her mother for picturing something so sinful…

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if it comes as a surprise to anyone that this story is heading for the full bodice-ripper treatment.
> 
> Next chapter: The First Ball, in which Sansa returns to society as the rumoured mistress of the Red Viper and some familiar faces reappear...
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	5. The First Ball

 

 

 

When Ellaria tells him of what Sansa had assumed he is appalled, he wants to beg for forgiveness on his knees, wants to rip his shirt from his body–

“–I think that might only alarm her, my love,” Ellaria says, looking at him a little wryly. “And it is not as if you do _not_ want her as a mistress, a paramour, someday, is it not? So if you were to be quite so theatrical now, it might undermine any future…seduction you have planned.”

“I do not have any seduction planned,” he blusters.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Not currently,” he argues. “She is such a skittish little thing, and I shall not touch her until she has her own inheritance.”

Ellaria can see that he is pained by the thought that he might misuse Sansa. “I know, my love, you are an honourable man,” she says, and kisses him lovingly, “that is why I love you. But I think it is best that you do not say anything, truly, for it would only embarrass her, she would think that _she_ was at fault for misunderstanding. It is better to keep it between us women.”

Now it is Oberyn who raises an eyebrow. “I see you share confidences already, the two of you. Do you seek to replace me, my love?” his eyes glitter with amusement.

“Pah!” she says, hitting him on the shoulder with her fan, “you know as well as I, that it is the thought of all three of us together that inspires me.”

“As it should. For you are both very beautiful women.”

“Truly, you are very lucky,” Ellaria agrees, with a world-weary nod, and she giggles and he pushes her up against the wall, hands pulling up her skirts.

But despite the japes it does pain him, the thought that Sansa might be frightened of him, might have assumed the worst. A reputation like he has – that of a rake and gambler and a cur – is useful in many ways. People say things in front of him that they would not if they knew he had a keen political mind, he may cavort amongst many different types of people and gain their confidences, and his threats are often taken as japes.

Doran finds it alternatingly amusing and frustrating, the reports and stories he hears back, Oberyn knows, and very occasionally Oberyn will perform something particularly outrageous – like the time he dressed as a septa and got invited for tea in a silent sister house – all the while thinking, _this is for you brother_ , imagining the way his eyebrows will frown deeply and his mouth tick with a smile at the corner.

Some weeks after the outing to the park Oberyn decides to take his women on a trip to the national gallery. Of Oberyn and Ellaria, it is he who is the art connoisseur, so it is pleasant to spend so much time talking with Sansa, whom Ellaria often monopolises.

“Have you been here before, Lady Stark?” he asks, as the proctor ushers them inside. It is early, the gallery shall not open for a few more hours yet for general admissions but Doran had donated a collection of ancient Dornish sculptures and thus Oberyn is allowed as many private visits as he wishes.

“Only once, when I was very young, Prince Oberyn,” she says.

She is wearing a white dress with pink ribbons today, and looks like the Maiden made flesh. He tries not to stare at her so but it is like the fabric of her attire is a delicate net and his eyes have been caught.

“Then you might not have seen the room of ancient sculptures from my homeland before,” he says as they enter the Dornish room.

Doran had paid for a glass ceiling to be installed and the morning light makes the bronze and stone of the figures seem to glow, makes them half-alive. Oberyn feels a pang of longing for home.

Sansa gasps in shock and surprise at the sight before her. The Sand Snakes are running to their favourite individual sculptures, tugging each other between them and starting the usual arguments.

Oberyn has never been able to choose a favourite between the figure of three maidens dancing together, wearing the thinnest of shifts that reveal their naked forms; the two wrestlers whose muscles stand in stark relief; the mother with babe at her breast; or the ancient, nameless queen wearing a magnificent crown of snakes, whose jewelled eyes had never been stolen from their bronze sockets.

Oberyn starts moving the chairs from the walls to sit in front of each sculpture so the Sand Snakes and Sansa may practice their sketching with the paper and charcoal that Ellaria has brought. He watches Sansa circle the sculptures with her hand fluttering between her mouth and her breastbone in shock and, he thinks, a little awe. Ancient Dornish sculptures are very fashionable but there are some who believe they lack all artistic merit and are simply obscene because of their déshabillé and for the eroticism that was part and parcel of the sculptors' intentions.

“Choose your sculpture to draw, girls,” Ellaria says, clapping her hands together, and his daughters race to a chair, like they are playing a game of Missing Chairs.

Poor Sansa is left with the stone figure of an ancient warrior who wears only a scrap of cloth around his loins. Oberyn can see her blushing from the other side of the room, but soon her face is creased in a look of concentration, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in a manner he knows that she would be terribly embarrassed about were it drawn attention to.

He walks around the room slowly, stares at each statue as if to greet it in recognition, and tells his daughters that their drawings are a marvel, even if a few of them are quite terrible – artistic talent has never been strong in his family. Finally, he reaches Sansa in the far corner, whose sketch reveals her true skill.

“A wonderful drawing,” he says and she startles at his voice and drops the charcoal she was holding.

He bends down to pick it up and hands it to her, their fingers brushing and she stutters out a thanks. He stands up and rubs the charcoal left on his fingertips together.

“Have you had many lessons in drawing?” he asks.

“No, my prince,” she says.

“Then it is an innate skill,”

She shakes her head, “I have practised for many hours.”

“I could practise for many hours and should I try to draw this figure it would look more like a horse than a man,” he says and she laughs and seems shocked by her own laughter.

“Truly,” he says, “my tutor was so frustrated with me as a child that he cried. I have told people since that a drawing of mine once brought someone to tears but now you are the only one who knows the true story.”

She smiles shyly at him.

“The way that you have drawn the shadows across the muscles of his form,” he says, hand curving in the air above the stone of the statue, “takes true skill. Should you require a model for any future sketches I would gladly offer my services.”

She blushes, and he realises that she must think he means to model for her without his clothes so he corrects her smoothly, “I have modelled for all of my daughters for their sketches before and they have delighted in choosing out my clothing beforehand like I am their doll. Obara found a regimental uniform somewhere and I have worn that several times."

Curiously, his words only seem to make her blush harder.

 

*

 

Sansa has been thrilled by the dresses that arrived from the dressmakers – after the adjustments that had had to be made as she gained weight again from regular meals, adjustments which she had expressed apologies for, and which Ellaria had waved away – and she has spent the last few weeks walking about as if she is in heaven. The lace and the ribbons and the fine fabrics and the delicate bonnets! Sometimes she sits awake in bed stroking the fabric of the dresses like they are pets and then feels very silly the next morning for her actions the night before.

And now, now that there is a _ball_ to go to, the Martells have ordered her four more dresses! – she must choose one for tonight, and save the others for _other_ balls that they say she will attend as well.

Sansa has to pinch herself, gently, sometimes to remind herself that this is not a dream. Prince Oberyn explained to her why it was important to attend balls, and other society events, with them – that she might make allies for her House (such as it is, she thinks when he says this), find friends, and prove to the Lannisters that she was no longer under their control – but she wanted to tell him that he needn’t have bothered explaining, for Sansa needs no reason whatsoever to agree to attend a ball.

Now she is trying on the new dresses alongside Ellaria with Obella and Tyene for an audience, and large glasses of wine all round. Ellaria has whipped off her own dress and stands in her chemise and light stays – she does not wear a corset during the day, Sansa has noticed. Sansa fiddles with the laces of her own dress, biting her lips with nervousness, as Obella prances about the room holding Sansa’s evening gowns and cooing over them with her sister.

Sansa _desperately_ wishes to try on the gowns but she does not want to disrobe in front of so many people, to have them see what her clothes have so far hidden. As if she knows this, Ellaria sends her daughters out of the room, with the servants too, and pours them both some more wine, helping Sansa to sit down next to her on the couch.

“You should not be ashamed of your scars,” Ellaria says, after she has taken a sip, the wine bruising her mouth red, “we are all scarred.”

But Sansa knows that this cannot be true, she is ashamed that the servants have told Ellaria, that everyone must now know.

“And you should not be angry at the servants for telling us,”

“Oh, I could never be!” Sansa exclaims,

“They were only concerned for you. Sansa,” she takes her hands in hers, “Do you think that there is something a servant could do for a beating to be the correct punishment?”

“I cannot imagine– only something truly terrible and if it were truly terrible, if they had hurt someone, it would be the law who should punish them not their masters.”

Ellaria nods, “Is there something you did then, to deserve what Joffrey did to you?”

Sansa wants to bring up her hands to hide her face but Ellaria squeezes them. “No,” Sansa whispers.

“Then it is not your shame, but his. You did not deserve to be mistreated, no one in your position would.”

She moves one of her hands to stroke Sansa’s hair back from her forehead. Ellaria is so beautiful, Sansa thinks, so caring.

“We are all scarred, Sansa. Oberyn himself bears the scars of a rambunctious childhood getting into all sorts of trouble; and from fighting and fencing, scars which you must have seen when he swam in the park.”

Sansa nods as if she had seen them and was not at the time too distracted by his _form_ to notice any blemishes.

“And now that I have seen yours, you shall see mine,” Ellaria says.

She stands up and tugs her chemise over her head, leaving her in only her stockings, her arm held across her firm breasts. Sansa feels herself blushing at the sight of so much brown skin, at the dark hair between her thighs. It is a long time since she has seen another woman undress, for at the Lannisters she was kept alone in her tiny room.

Ellaria is even more beautiful without her dresses Sansa thinks, as eyes roam the other woman's body. It takes a few moments for her to notice the scar that Ellaria must mean, and she gasps at its size.

“You see,” Ellaria says.

There is a long, deep scar that bisects her lower belly from one side to the other, and the skin above and below is puckered and folded inwards, as if her stomach is a shirt that was stitched with too little thread. Ellaria touches it proudly. “Do you know what this scar is?” she asks.

“Your babe was cut from your belly,” Sansa says, and then stares at her in awe, “you survived this?”

“I did,” Ellaria says, and then smiles so sweetly, “and so did Loreza.”

Sansa clutches her chest.

“We were one of the first mother and babes to ever survive such an operation, and the Dornish doctor was very skilled.”

Sansa feels such tenderness for Ellaria, such tenderness as she looks at the scar and the delicate skin of her belly and the way it swells a little over the mark; the scar that brought into the world such a precious little thing as Loreza.

“It was a battle I survived," Ellaria says, “just as you did yours. I know that it is a happier wound, that it resulted in Loreza, but this scar also means that I cannot bear any more children.”

Sansa feels tears blur her eyes.

“Oh, Sansa, do not cry for me. I bore four beautiful daughters, I have four more daughters to call my own,” she hugs Sansa to her and Sansa is shocked at the warmth of her bare skin, the softness of her back and sides.

Sansa feels a little foolish now. Her own scars are just marks on the surface, inconsequential things.

“The scar on your back that is high enough to see above a dress,” Ellaria says, touching Sansa's nape gently with a fingertip as she holds her, “it is like a beauty mark, a blemish that only makes you look more beautiful,” she steps back, “like the paintings we saw today, or the Dornish statues with fingers missing, a foot vanished; it is your imperfections that make you singular."

She holds out her arms at her sides, "Do you think my own make me unhandsome?" she ask.

Sansa shakes her head, "No, of course not, you are very beautiful," she says and Ellaria smiles at her sweetly.

Ellaria picks up her short corset and asks Sansa to help her with it. “Your other scars,” she says, as Sansa ties the laces, “the ones lower down on your back, Sansa, these will only be seen by a lover–“

Sansa blushes at the word.

“-a husband," Ellaria corrects herself, "and you will trust them by the time they do, you will know that they love you for _you_ and that this love cannot be shaken by a few little marks on the skin. Prince Oberyn does not care that I am scarred because he loves me, he does not feel pity or get angry on my behalf, he does not turn me away as a lover.”

Sansa feels herself blush at Ellaria’s reference to the _intimacies_ of herself and Oberyn. Ellaria was so bold, it seemed that all of Dorne was. But were their customs as sinful as her tutors would have argued? Or were they just different?

“I do not see how I will find a husband or ever marry,” Sansa admits, after another gulp of wine, as Ellaria is helping her fasten her own corset, having changed into a lighter chemise that will fit underneath the new dresses, “I have no money to my name, and a ruined name besides.”

“I promise you Sansa, as one of your guardians,” Ellaria tugs the laces to tie the bow and her heavy breath slides across Sansa’s nape “I promise that if you cannot find a husband here in the ton, in King’s Landing or in the Reach or Riverrun or the North; you shall find one in Dorne.”

She helps Sansa into one of the first dresses, a pale purple so delicate a colour that Sansa wants to eat it, although that is a nonsensical thought, or a thought brought on by too much wine at too early an hour.

“You would be a great jewel in Dorne,” Ellaria says, moving them in front of the mirror, and holding onto her narrow waist from behind, “they would duel over the right to ask for your hand and you would be the one to decide which of your suitors to marry, or none.”

She smiles and Sansa meets her smile in the mirror.

“Now, there are three other dresses to try on, and we are running out of wine. May I call the others in now, Sansa?”

“Yes, please do,” Sansa nods, and this time it is four Sand Snakes who appear, along with wine and two trays of lemon cakes; and an afternoon of much merriment is had.

She can barely sleep the night before the ball and as she gets ready that afternoon the Sand Snakes flit about excitedly. It is only Oberyn, Ellaria, and Sansa who are attending, and though Sansa expressed concern that the Sand Snakes would be jealous, that one of them should surely take her place, they themselves said they did not wish to go, and Ellaria said that as much as her daughters loved dancing and fine dresses, they did not much care for the ton.

Sansa didn’t care who was at the ball, she only wanted to wear a fine dress in a room full of dancers and maybe dance one or two dances herself, but Oberyn has sworn to her that of the Lannisters only Tyrion might attend, as the others are no friends of Olenna Tyrell who is hosting the ball. Sansa would not know what to do if she saw Joffrey or Cersei or Tywin, she fears she might faint at the horror, so she is glad to know in advance that she need not watch for them.

Oberyn looks quite speechless when she descends the staircase on the evening of the ball, in the light purple gown, he must be as impressed as she is by the dressmaker’s talent. Ellaria's dress is of a deep, unfashionable, red but it looks striking against her skin and matches the deep colour of Oberyn's coat.

"I foresaw that we three would not quite match so I bought you this, Sansa, and before you refuse it politely I must tell you that it is rude to refuse a gift given gladly," he says, handing her a large jewelled hair brooch.

"Thank you, my prince," she says, curtseying deeply, and Ellaria helps her pin it to the side of her hair. Sansa touches it gently as they enter the carriage, fingers glancing over each jewel. She would wear it every day if she could but she knows that it would only suit evening attire.

Sansa feels nervous when the carriage draws in to the courtyard of the Tyrell mansion and Ellaria reaches over and squeezes her hand, as if she reads it on her face.

"Lady Sansa," Oberyn says, before they exit, "I have a reputation in the ton, that you yourself may have heard, and I hope dearly that this does not mean that you are treated unfairly by anyone tonight, that you do not overhear any comments that may hurt you. I have found that much of the impulse of such comments is jealousy, and as a Prince with a handsome paramour and a group of the most wonderful daughters, I know that I have much to be jealous of," the door opens and he helps her down, her hand in his." They will be jealous of the company you share," he says, "your fine dress, and your beauty," he reaches out a hand to touch her jaw.

It is the first touch he has made on her person anywhere else than her hand and her skin seems to burn sweetly at the very spot when he has taken his hand back.

"I shall be the envy of all with two such beauties on my arms," he says, stepping back and holding out an elbow on each side.

The Master of Ceremonies announces their entrance and when the room hears their names they all seem to stop and look; but Sansa keeps her head high, she is a daughter of Catelyn Stark and a ward of Prince Oberyn, she will not dip her head out of shame or fear.

"Jealous already," Oberyn whispers, tugging a smile from her lips.

He asks her to take the first dance with him, and will not accept her assertions that surely Ellaria should be his first dance partner, arguing that Ellaria has had a decade of first dances and will not be put out by taking the second tonight. Ellaria herself says that she wishes to speak with Margaery Tyrell now before the other girl is whisked off her feet all night.

Sansa takes a deep breath as they line up as a couple with the other dancers. She recognises faces and names all around her – though she has only ever spoken to a few of them since her season had barely begun before she was betrothed to Joffrey and her father was lost – and she fears what the men might say during the dance but she receives only smiles and polite nods as she is handed from hand to hand, spinning and turning around the room, though they seem also to glance over at Oberyn with some nervousness.

In but a few moments, all her remaining worries and fears seem to fall away, her heart feels so light it might float up to the sky. Yet of all her partners, it is Oberyn she yearns to return to, and she finds herself watching him when they are apart, feeling so glad when their hands meet again once more.

Ellaria is still talking during the second dance so she partners Oberyn again - she thinks she would partner him all night if he wished, such a good dancer he is, but that would not be fair to sweet Ellaria, she knows.

On the third dance she begs tiredness and he asks for Ellaria's hand. The two of them - their dark looks and rich attire - stand out in a sea of pale colours, draw the eye effortlessly.

"Prince Oberyn is very handsome," a girl standing next to her says, giggling.

"He is," Sansa agrees and then turns when she sees the girl's chaperone tug her away to another side of the room, looking unpleasantly at Sansa. Jealous, she hears Oberyn say in her mind, they are just jealous.

Another woman approaches, one she definitely recognises for it is a friend from childhood, Jeyne Poole. Jeyne darts forward to kiss her cheek and then holds her hands tightly in her own.

"It is so good to see you, Sansa," she says and Sansa agrees, feeling tears prick at her eyes.

"We have been so worried, in the North, about your whereabouts, about those curs the Lannisters," her voice dips as she mentions their name. "Are you well, Sansa, truly?"

"I am," she says, "Prince Oberyn Martell has taken me as his ward and he is kind and chivalrous and wonderful."

Jeyne searches her eyes and, seemingly satisfied, she takes Sansa's arm in hers and leads her around the room. "He is certainly handsome," she says, and they share a smile. "More handsome than mine own husband, certainly," she laughs and she tells Sansa about the soldier who had won her hand and they talk as girls do for the length of several dances. Sansa feels fortified by the presence of her friend, protected from the occasional dirty look a woman may give her as they walk past. If Jeyne believes she is still worthy of her company then that is worth far more than someone she has never even met before.

Prince Oberyn comes to find her some time later, as she talks with Jeyne, her husband and her husband's younger sister. He has persuaded the musicians to play a waltz and he would beg Sansa's hand. She might lie and say that she does not know how to dance the waltz, for it is still a somewhat scandalous dance, performed in a singular couples that circle the room, but she has never had the opportunity of dancing it with anyone other than Arya, who had a tendency to step on her feet every few seconds; she fears that she would not refuse the opportunity to dance a waltz with the prince for all the gold in Westeros.

The audience shifts about on their feet as the music begins and the couples that would brave a waltz take their places. His arm is so firm against her back, his hand warm in hers. Her breath feels a little short even though she has been resting for quite some time.

"You look happy tonight, Sansa," he murmurs as they begin to dance.

"I am," she says, "I cannot thank you enough for accompanying me tonight. It is like a dream," she admits.

It is as if the world around them has disappeared as they circle slowly around the room and she stares quite boldly at him as he looks back at her, feeling like her eyes are caught by his which are dark and inscrutable. He bears few wrinkles on his face and his jaw is still firm unlike others of his age, his hair comes to a strong widow's peak and curls charmingly around his ears. His lips are full for a mans, and flushed with colour.

She dreamed of Oberyn last night. She has been dreaming of him since she saw him at the pond and watched that kiss he shared with Ellaria; since she saw two _other_ of their kisses since then. She has dreamed that he kissed her too and she feels dreadfully ashamed and flustered and _warm_ when she wakes up from such dreams. She blushes now as if he might be able to peer inside her mind and see her thoughts and oh, how can she have such thoughts about Ellaria’s paramour! Ellaria has been so kind to her and it is rotten to start having _lascivious_ thoughts about her own prince.

“You are frowning, my lady, is it the new shoes, are they pinching your toes?”

“No, Prince Oberyn, my feet feel as light as feathers. I could dance all night,” she admits, feeling buoyant and excited.

When the dance ends she cannot help but feel a little amiss.

He takes Ellaria for the next dance, another waltz which he has begged of the musicians, and she watches them circle the room, the way that everyone else watches them too. They are such a handsome couple; the _most_ handsome couple in the entire city, she believes. And the way he holds her is so tender, the movement of his feet so sure, the way their forms seem to work as one as they move across the floor, their eyes only for one another.

Is Sansa to die a maiden? As a girl, when she first moved to the Lannisters, that had been her only wish, but now that she is older, now that she is not quite so afraid and her body is starting to _respond_ towards other people again, and her mind gives her odd feelings and such strange dreams; she is a little mournful of the things she will not experience, the company, even sharing someone’s bed chastely, of having someone to hold and be held.

Just then she sees a familiar face approach, Willas Tyrell, who bows deeply and asks if he might sit beside her. He looks nervous and his hands are skittering around the glass of wine he holds as he takes his seat.

“I must express to you my gravest apologies, Lady Stark,” he blurts out, in a hushed tone of voice and she leans closer to hear him, “I have been quite wracked with shame for what you must think of me, for being part of that awful card game with Marquis Baratheon. Margaery had heard word of the whole sordid– forgive me– scurrilous matter and I was there at the urging of my grandmother to try and free you, if I may use that term, to take you under the care of House Tyrell as a ward. It is to my _unending shame_ that I was not able to best the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn Martell, at Loo. I shall never be able to forgive myself, my lady–”

She pauses his frantic speech with a soft hand on his arm. “Good sir, my lord, I thank you dearly, but I promise you that all is not as it seems. The Red Viper has not done me ill. He has taken me under his care as a ward.”

“My Lady Stark,” he says, face falling.

He thinks she is a naïve simpleton, he thinks that the Viper is waiting to pounce on her. But Sansa knows now that this is not true, for he has had all the chances in the world but has treated her only with kindness. Sansa would not be subject to gossip were she a ward of the Tyrells, she knows this, but she does not _know_ them, does not know what they want with her, and at least the Martells are clearly hesitant to marry off the girls and women under their care since none of the daughters are betrothed yet.

Willas is kind to worry. She has always thought Willas handsome, and he was polite to her even in that uncertain period of time when rumours flew roughshod and the shaming of her family began. Yet his looks only pale beside those of Oberyn.

After Willas leaves her another familiar face joins her on the seat, Tyrion Lannister.

For a moment her stomach seems to fall with fear, for her mind assumes that the other Lannisters are not far behind, but she presses a hand to her stomach and breathes in deeply, searching out Oberyn's face in the crowd for strength. But the Prince is already looking at her and he makes his way over as soon as he meets her gaze.

"My Lady Stark," Tyrion says, "I am pleased to see you under the care of Prince Oberyn for despite what people may say, the prince is truly the most gallant of men."

"I know of his gallantry, my lord," she says, feeling as if she wants to defend the prince, even though Tyrion has spoken no insult.

"I am sorry that the manner of–"

His sentence is broken off by the arrival of the man in question who greets Tyrion heartily with a hand on his shoulder.

"You are not bothering the lady Sansa, are you Tyrion?"

"Of course not, I was only singing your own praises, my prince,"

Oberyn smiles but he does not remove his hand from Tyrion's shoulder. Ellaria has arrived too and she asks Sansa to accompany her to get some air for she is feeling peaked. Sansa hurriedly stands up and takes the other woman's arm.

"I was only ever kind to her," she hears Tyrion say as they walk away.

"But you left her there, a defenceless girl, you made no plans to remove from that den of lions–" Oberyn replies, sounding quite angry but she moves away before she can catch his other words.

Ellaria stops them in a quiet corner of the room and rests her hands on Sansa's shoulders. "You have looked very happy tonight, Sansa, I feel gladdened to see you with such joy in your countenance."

"It is a wonderful ball, it seems like a dream."

Ellaria takes her hands in hers and squeezes them. "It is but the first of many balls, I promise."

They meander then towards the corridor that leads to the gardens, the cool outside air creeping towards them and making Sansa shiver.

"Did Tyrion say anything to disquiet you, Sansa?"

"No," she says, shaking her head, "he had only spoken two sentences before Prince Oberyn joined our conversation,"

Ellaria studies her face.

"But in truth," Sansa pauses, "the sight of him did...unsettle me, it reminded me of my time with the Lannisters. It was irrational of me, I know,"

"Oh, Sansa," she says, and hugs her quickly.

"I think that they were planning on marrying me to Tyrion one day," she whispers, "but he kept disappearing to gentlemen’s clubs and,” her voice lowers even further and her face blushes, “ _houses of ill-repute_ , every time it seemed as if his sister had decided on a date.”

"As good as well, for Tyrion could not marry you since he is already married."

"Married?" Sansa says, in shock, but just then a cry rings out above the noise of the ball and they turn to see that a young woman has collapsed in a faint in the corridor. Oberyn has rushed first to her aid and Ellaria moves closer to take the woman's hand.

Sansa has joined the circle of people that have gathered, wondering if there might be a way for her to help too, when a handsome woman standing nearby, who she does not recognise, gives her a dark look and suddenly says to her friend, in a voice loud enough for Sansa to hear, "There she is, Prince's Oberyns _whore_ , the shame of her to show her face here, the utter nerve."

Sansa flushes instantly with shame, and at the rudeness of her words. She wants to defend the prince, to correct this woman, but she feels her chin start to tremble. She turns away and walks down the next hallway, opening the first door she finds.

It is the library and, seeing that it appears empty of all but books, she closes the door behind her and rests against it, breathing heavily. After she has regained her composure, she walks to the other end of the room, circling around a row of shelves. Her fingers brush against the spines of the fine books, though her eyes cannot seem to rest on their titles.

Just then she hears a creak of floorboards and then slow footsteps. Someone is in the library with her, positioned between her and the door, and moving closer. She turns round to face the intruder.

"My lady," he says and she trembles with fear.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the suspense. Also, poor Oberyn – there he is trying to be subtle and Ellaria goes straight in for a naked hug.
> 
> Regency fun facts (that I have found on the internet):  
> \- Many women of the time wore only stockings under their chemises  
> \- The first successful c-section (mother and child surviving) was performed during the Regency period by Dr James Barry who had been born Margaret Ann Bulkley.
> 
> please comment, I would love to hear what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	6. A Familiar Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, without a ball to take up 2k extra words ;)

 

 

“My Lady Stark,” Lord Baelish repeats, a look of such concern on his face, as he walks across the library towards her.

“Lord Baelish,” she says, curtseying quickly, hoping that she shall not have to tarry in a room with the man who had arranged that terrible card game, as Ellaria and Prince Oberyn had revealed to her. A man who was also present the night her father was shot in a duel, but did nothing to stop it; who owns half the houses of ill-repute in King's Landing and whose schemes have destroyed countless lives. How foolish she was to think he could ever be a friend to her!

“I am so sorry that I could not save you from the Martells, my lady, I am kept up at night with worry for you.”

“You need not worry, my lord, I am quite content. Prince Oberyn Martell is a fine guardian.”

He walks closer, his shoes tapping softly on the parquet floor.

“Prince Oberyn, the _Red Viper_ , and now you are in his lair. My lady, you must know – you will forgive me for being so indelicate - that he wishes to have you as his mistress.”

“You are wrong, he does not wish it at all, I am to be their ward,” she says, pained by his words and the reputation her protectors have. It isn’t _fair_ to her that people say such horrible things about Prince Oberyn and Ellaria, when they are so _good_ and kind.

“Oh, sweetling,” he says, using a too-familiar name, and with such worry in his countenance. He is but a few paces from her now and getting closer, and the door behind him looks so very far away.

She retreats until a shelf of books is at her back, but there is nowhere left to go.

“Do you really believe them?" he asks, in such a gentle voice, "Why has he not married his mistress, my lady, a woman he professes to love, the mother of four of his children? Why does he have so many daughters? Isn’t it _obscene_ the number of women he has lain with? Where are those women now, those mothers. My _dear_ lady,” he says, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek.

His words are so concerned and yet his manner unnerves her entirely. He is _covetous;_ he is not letting her have any space, he is not letting her _breathe_.

“You might be their ward now, but what of the future? His daughters are not married, they may never be, and neither shall you; he is possessive of his charges. Do you never wish to marry, my lady, never _ever_? Surely you want to be a mother someday?”

His words, words that ease inside the very fears she has for her future, reveal his skill, his talent at manipulation.

“He will use you quite wretchedly, even if he seems to be the very best of men at present, you fear this, you _know_ this, sweetling."

His eyes roam over her face, his thumb on her cheek feels like ice. Her chest is trembling. She is caught.

“Lord Baelish,” she says – thinking of the Sand Snakes and their confidence, thinking of Prince Oberyn and Ellaria’s devil-may-care mien, thinking of her mother who had rejected Lord Baelish’s suit – “Lord Baelish, I tire of this conversation.”

He takes his hand away and smiles at her like she is a pet who has just done a pleasing new trick.

“Very well, my lady, I shall take my leave.” He steps back and bows and then turns sharply on his heel.

She watches him and waits for the door to close behind him.

 _There_ , she thinks, she has got him to leave her alone, and she shivers, rubbing her arms for warmth.

But then the door opens again directly. Yet it is Oberyn’s sweet voice that rings out immediately. “Lady Stark?” he calls.

“Here!” she says, and then repeats herself because her voice sounds so thin, “I am here!”

And here they are, Prince Oberyn and Ellaria, her guardians and protectors, and she is so thrilled by their entrance, so warmed to the heart immediately by their presence.

“We saw Lord Baelish exit, did he confront you?” Prince Oberyn asks.

“Yes,” she says, not enjoying the frailty of her voice, “but I asked him to leave and he did,” she adds.

Ellaria hugs her to her, and Prince Oberyn looks angry when she observes him over her shoulder, angry and regretful.

“My gravest apologies, my lady, for allowing such a thing to occur. I have failed as your protector tonight.”

“No, my prince,” she shakes her head,  “it was but a short conversation, it was nothing, and you had turned your head for only a moment before he came to find me.”

Ellaria steps back but keeps a hand on her shoulder, and Sansa's skin is warmed by the touch.

“He only needs but a moment to cause a wound with his words,” Oberyn says, regarding her carefully.

“Should you like some wine?” Ellaria asks, curving her other arm around Oberyn’s shoulder as if to settle his nerves.

“I should very much like some wine, my lady,” Sansa says, and Ellaria leads her by the hand out of the library and towards the refreshment table.

There are more dances, amusing conversations, gossip shared, and much wine consumed. Yet the rest of the evening, Sansa cannot help but think of the words of Lord Baelish, and whether there was any truth in them.

What place is there for her with the Martells, truly. Is she to be an unmarried maid of thirty, of forty? Will she be but their ward, remaining on the margins of a relationship of love and passion, watching them longingly while starving for a love of her own? Will she wither like a rose, and lose her bloom, her youth, and have no true comfort – children, a husband - to look after her in her old age?

 

*

 

By the time they leave the ball, Sansa is utterly in her cups, though Oberyn only finds it charming. Her cheeks are so flushed, her gestures languid, and when she speaks she frowns with such a serious concentration that it brings a smile to his face that he desperately tried to hide lest she might think he mocked her.

Littlefinger has slithered from whence he came when they have left the library, although Ellaria says that this is just as well for Oberyn would only challenge him to a duel, and kill him, if he were still present - because Oberyn has yet to ever lose a duel. He _wishes_ he could kill him but Lord Baelish is the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Dorne has trading contracts with King's Landing. He will find a way though, he will vanquish this odious little man someday, that he swears.

Oberyn and Ellaria are both needed to help Sansa up into the carriage, and they sit her between them so she does not tumble over on the journey home. She is humming the music of their own waltz, he realises with delight. It was a beautiful dance, matched only by the beauty of his dance partner. Sansa looks exquisite tonight. When she walked down the stairs in her new dress he was made quite speechless. Her pale, soft, skin; those big blue eyes; the ringlets of fire draping down her elegant neck; her tiny waist; and the perfect handfuls of her breasts-

He stops this thought, and coughs. Ellaria espies him over Sansa's slumped head and gives him a knowing look.

But there are more excitements to be had that evening, for after Ellaria has deposited Sansa in her own – lonely, he cannot help but think – bed, a visitor bangs on the door quite forcefully, sending the servants into alarum. Yet Oberyn is not concerned because he knows the identity of the visitor – the only kind of visitor who would dare to knock on the Red Viper's front door late at night without fearing for his life – and he swings it open to reveal his good friend, and fellow Dornishman, Sir Daemon Sand.

"Was there a need to wake up my whole household with your arrival, good sir?"

"I think only to keep you on your toes, my prince," Daemon says, and bows mockingly. "I hear that King's Landing has turned you quite soft, there are rumours you shall be bested soon at fencing at Angelo's."

Oberyn grips Daemon's hand tightly, "Ha! I shall prove to you tomorrow that my skills are not as poor as yours have always been, if you do not need a day of rest beforehand, I know the years are starting to weigh heavily on you."

"Are you two quite finished with this display of masculine posturing?" Ellaria's dry voice calls from the stairway. "The open door is bringing in the chill."

"My apologies, Ellaria," Daemon says and bows, then strides over to her lift her up into his arms and kiss her as she laughs with pleasure.

"How now, friend, watch your conduct," Oberyn says to the other man, but he smiles in enjoyment at the pleasing sight of two who are among the most dearest to him together.

He closes the door and turns to ask Daemon the reason for his late arrival. "Do you bring with you news from the north?"

"I do," he says, though from his look Oberyn cannot tell if it is good or bad.

"Come, we shall have a drink in my study," he says, holding out a hand to Ellaria to join them.

He has sent Daemon on a trip to the north to investigate rumours surrounding the deaths of the two littlest Starks.

In Oberyn's experience, death often has rather a loose grasp on a man's life in Westeros - there are many men who 'die' in order avoid their creditors or parents or wives; there are men who brag in their cups about killing someone and then the fellow turns up the next day to call the other man out; and Oberyn himself once spread false rumours of a man's death in order to flush him out so that he could actually kill him.

Daemon tells them that Masters Bran and Rickon Stark are almost definitely alive and being hidden by a wise woman somewhere in the wild northern forests. Their bodies had never been found after the great fire of Winterfell and he has heard testimony that they are in hiding. Yet the northern forests are treacherous for a man from the south, even one as battle-proven and as cunning as Daemon, and his friend has set a group of wildlings on the hunt in lieu of himself and hopes to hear from them soon so that he might give Oberyn a certain answer.

Oberyn is cautiously pleased, trusting Deamon's judgement, but he shall speak not a word of this to Sansa until he has the both of the boys in his sights and can prove that they are her kin. He has sent word out beyond Westeros too, to see if the rumours of Jon Snow's death are also unfounded, and he is ever alert to news that the younger daughter might still be living. Oberyn shall leave no stone unturned when it comes to righting the wrongs against Sansa and her family, and he so dearly wishes to reunite her with some of her kin so that she shall not feel quite so alone.

The next morning he takes Daemon to the Bond Street School of Arms to prove he has lost none of his skill with the foil.

The men of the ton are making a good showing today at Angelo's fencing club and at Jackson's boxing academy next door, and the interior walls are barely discernable for the amount of spectators. Oberyn relishes an audience –when Doran is sore with his brother, he likes to say that Oberyn was born to tread the boards at the theatre, that he wastes his gods-given talent as a prince.

The club has even drawn Tywin, Duke Lannister, to its room today and Oberyn cannot wait to rile the man up. Daemon only sighs next to him and says, "you promised Ellaria no bloodshed today, did you not."

"Do not worry, the only weapons I shall deal in with that loathsome cur shall be words," he stops. "For now."

Oberyn loathes Tywin such that he himself fears that he will one day choke the life out of him in front of every member of the ton. Tywin is well-guarded and never left alone, he has alliances that go to the very top of King's Landing, so Oberyn himself cannot kill the man for fear of harm to his family, much as that pains him. He shall only manoeuvre events so that another does the deed on his behalf.

But not yet, he wants to make him suffer first, he wants to bring him to his knees before he dies, as he brought Oberyn to his when he learned what had happened Elia, what the Lannister's had done. As he destroyed Elia's life, so Oberyn shall destroy his.

"Prince Oberyn," Tywin says in greeting, with the briefest of bows. Oberyn does not bow in return, he does not have to, he outranks him and Tywin knows it. Delightful.

"How fares the Lady Stark?" Tywin asks.

"She is splendid," Oberyn says, beaming as if Tywin is truly concerned for her welfare, "and having a marvellous time with Ellaria. They are quite thick as thieves."

Tywin hates bastards; mistresses; and whores, despite the fact that he has used many since the death of his wife.

"She did not reach us in the best _condition_ , and we are doing our best to bolster her spirits," Oberyn adds.

Tywin only frowns unpleasantly. "I cannot think that the company you keep in that house is appropriate for a highborn girl like the Lady Stark."

"Odd, when she herself expresses the improvement in the calibre of her companionship."

"It matters not," Tywin says with a wave of his hand, "she shall be returned to my care forthwith, for her own good, and for the good of your own family."

Ah, they have reached the point of threats already, how predictable. "Why are you so concerned with a penniless heiress, my lord, you are not well known for your generosity, it must be said."

Tywin's smile is thin. "I am her guardian, the courts placed this responsibility upon my head. I have a duty to the lady, to her family."

Oberyn hums and turns around to search the rack for his favourite foil. "It is a pity that I have won the lady's guardianship fair and square in a game of loo against your own grandson then, is it not. But don't fear," he says, holding the foil up and in front of his eye, staring down its blade to the blunted tip, "I shall tend to her carefully. It is only a few weeks until she gains her majority, I know, but she is still a young girl, and she will need guidance even after that. Guidance in the shape of a husband, perhaps," he says, alluding to Tywin's plans for the Stark inheritance which, to his continued shame and frustration, Oberyn has still yet to find.

He takes his leave from Tywin and calls to the room for a sparring partner for the empty floor. A green man new to the ton agrees, not heeding the advice of his betters, believing from Oberyn's flamboyant attire that he fights a dandy. This shall be too easy.

He gets the first hit in within his first lunge forward and the scorer calls it out to lukewarm cheers. Oberyn knows will need to make things a little more exciting to gain the room, and he is after all a man who likes to give people what they want.

The other man's smile has faded and his hand looks tight with nerves on the hilt. Oberyn thrusts, he parries, he toys with the poor man. He twirls his foil in a showmanship manner, delighting in the frowns of the older men in the room and the cheers from the younger men.

Tywin still watches him from the wall, with his own toadies around him; Oberyn should wish to call him up on the floor yet he knows that the other man shall never fight him in an open fight, for he is aware that he should only lose.

Oberyn can still taunt him though, even as he lunges across the room, attacking his opponent. "I have a friend," he says to Tywin, over one shoulder, as he beats back the man in front of him almost without looking, "not a noble gentleman _naturally_ , who wishes to get into the mining business, I don't suppose you know who my man should ask for advice?

Tywin only glares at him, unimpressed.

Yet Oberyn has more than these barbs to use against him, more than his new knowledge of the Lannister gold mines which he will put to use at some later time. For Oberyn knows that, despite Tywin's obsession with the purity of his bloodline, with the money and name and titles of the Lannisters, the duke is quite unaware that his inheritance shall one day be going to the son of a whore.

For it was Oberyn that helped Tyrion save his woman Shae from Tywin's men who sought to kill her, and who spirited her away to another house at the other end of King's Landing where she might raise Tyrion's babe. It was Oberyn who arranged for Dornish marriage papers for the two of them prior to the birth, and hid the records so that Tywin might never find them.

He is a good liar, Tyrion, Oberyn will give him that - for everyone believes that he spends all his time in gentleman's clubs and whorehouses, even though he only makes a cursory appearance before dashing across the ton to spend time with his wife and son. Oberyn also looks forward to calling in the debt Tyrion has to pay for his guidance, in the form of monetary compensation, one day.

It is Oberyn who has also learned, care of Tywin's costly private whores, that the man himself has been impotent for years now since suffering from a pox, and thus will sire no more heirs.

And with Jaime Lannister dead, from his ill-fated duel abroad, there is only one who stands in the way of Tyrion and his son inheriting.

All Oberyn needs to do now, for all his plans to come to harvest, is to get rid of Joffrey.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might we, perchance, be heading for a fateful duel in a future chapter? ;)
> 
> The next chapter will be titled The Kiss but I should warn you in advance that you might not expect the identity of the kisser...
> 
> please comment, I would love to know what people think!
> 
> Also, you might have noticed that I didn't mention Cersei in the part about inheritance, I haven't decided whether to handwave and have her not inherit because she's a woman (which is totally false for the time period), or have her encounter an accident...what do you guys think?
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	7. The Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine attends a costume ball, is kissed by someone unexpected, and spies our hero bathing in a pond again...

 

 

It has barely been a week since the last ball, but now Sansa has learnt that they shall be attending _another –_ this time an hour's journey from King's Landing in the Reach, at a private mansion; and it is a _fancy dress_ ball, for which they must wear costumes, which Sansa thinks is the most _delightful_ idea.

The household are resting in the parlour one morning, the Sand Snakes attempting to 'occupy themselves quietly', as Ellaria has suggested, although there has still been some skipping and running about, especially from the youngest. Sansa is embroidering the handkerchief she plans on giving Sarella for her name day, and Ellaria and Prince Oberyn are answering correspondence, when the subject of costumes for the ball arises and Sansa admits that she is quite stumped on an idea for her own.

"You should go as a princess from the songs," little Loreza says, "and wear flowers in your hair and a wreath and garlands about your dress, and carry a basket of petals to throw in the air in front of you,"

"Oh, Loreza, that sounds so wonderful!" Sansa says, and then bites her lip, remembering that she shall not be the one charged with _purchasing_ such a costume.

"Hear, hear," says Ellaria, lifting her eyes from the letter she is writing, "we shall have that costume made for you, Sansa, for it would suit you well, and I shall not hear a single apologetic word from you about the cost required. For if you remember, my paramour is a prince, and it pleases him to buy dresses for those under his care," Ellaria adds, seeing to the very heart of Sansa as she always seems to do. Ellaria is so kind and thoughtful towards others, Sansa only hopes that she can be such a woman too one day.

"'Twould be cost I would gladly pay," Prince Oberyn agrees.

"What shall you disguise yourself as, Mama?" Dorea asks.

"I shall be shocking the entire ton, or those whom have not already been shocked by my appearance at their balls," Ellaria says, a sly smile sliding across her face, "by coming in the costume of a _gentleman_ ,"

Sansa gasps delightedly, and shivers at Ellaria's boldness.

Prince Oberyn sets his pen down on his own writing desk, "and you shall be the handsomest gentleman at the ball, my love."

"What is your costume to be, Papa?" Nymeria asks.

"I thought of coming as cupid, but I am too large a man to suit that disguise, methinks," he pauses, and Ellaria laughs deeply, though Sansa does not get the jape she believes the other woman is laughing at, "no, I shall come instead in a costume that befits my station, that of a Dornish Prince. A prince from our past when we were even less uncivilised as we are now, and we ranged the deserts hunting and fighting and wooing many a desert maiden," he says, getting up to pose roguishly, one foot on the seat of a chair, eyes fixed 'pon some desert horizon.

Sansa can imagine him there, in her mind's eye, wild and handsome, and it makes her cheeks go hot.

Ellaria mimes a swoon, hand across her forehead, and makes her daughters laugh.

"Will you bring a golden horse with you then, to ride into the ball, Papa?" Loreza says.

"I think that might startle one too many people, my snakeling," he replies and bops his youngest daughter on the nose fondly to make her giggle.

"I can't wait until I can go to a costume ball," Loreza says, sighing and slumping back dramatically on her couch, "I shall come as the most beautiful princess in Westeros, and I shall meet my own prince there and we shall fall in love."

"How could he not fall in love with such a pretty princess as you?" her father says.

"I should come as a warrior," Obara says, "and Tyene would come as a septa,"

"My sister has the right of it," Tyene admits; and the the room discusses the matter of costumes for many more hours, almost missing luncheon they are so impassioned in their arguments and imaginings.

 

Prince Oberyn's good friend, Sir Daemon Sand, who he says is like a brother to him, shall be accompanying them to the ball. _For I have only one set of arms and two delightful ladies to escort_ , Prince Oberyn had said. Ellaria had told her, when she was brushing Sansa's hair one night before bed at her dressing table, as she has started to do some nights, that Daemon was the truest of men, and utterly honourable; that Ellaria knew that Sansa was afeared of men but that she promised she did not have anything to fear from this Dornishman.

Sansa said that she trusts Prince Oberyn and Ellaria with all her heart, and if they trust him, then she is content to do the same; which seemed to make Ellaris so pleased that she hugged Sansa tightly to her, before returning to count the strokes of the brush. Sansa finds it so pleasurable to have her hair brushed, she feels like a cat being groomed, like she could almost purr.

Sansa knew, from his own words, that the prince would be wearing a Dornish costume but she had not thought of what it might actually look like, so when he comes striding down the stairs into the entrance hall the night of the ball, she is quite startled with shock.

He is wearing a light orange turban over his head; tight linen trousers that reveal the brown of his bare ankles; jewelled slippers she is quite envious of herself; a white linen shirt and an elaborately embroidered orange waistcoat, down to almost his knees, and tied by only a little jewelled clasp at the front.

But what is most shocking is that he does not wear a cravat, he has nothing about his broad neck at all, and the tunic is slashed deeply; revealing a triangle of flesh down his chest, a portion of the brown skin she first saw when he was bathing so long ago in the park. He has also, she realises, when she finally brings her gaze to his face, circled his own eyes with a black kohl, making them seem even more intense than they were already, dark and _wild_.

Sansa opens her floral fan and starts fanning herself gingerly; perhaps her corset is too tight tonight.

"I think the Lady Sansa is quite impressed by your costume, my prince," Ellaria says, standing next to her, and Sansa blushes further even though Ellaria had not meant it meanly.

Ellaria had brought a similar shock and warmth to Sansa by her costume. She has seen Ellaria wearing nothing but her stockings and yet her legs look so firm in her pair of men's breeches, her curved hips so different from a man's and yet so pleasing too. Her jacket is nipped in tightly under the bust, and the collar of it looks simply dashing against Ellaria's neck and strong jaw. Sansa feels quite the poor cousin next to their splendour.

"My Lady Stark, you truly make the most beautiful of flower goddesses," Prince Oberyn says, taking her hands in his.

Then, searching her face, he reaches over and brushes a brief kiss on her cheek. Sansa cannot help but sigh at the soft feeling of his lips and the strangely pleasant rub of his stubble on her soft skin.

"You are too kind, my prince," she says, and curtseys once he has taken his hands back.

"I speak only the truth, do I not, Ellaria?"

"You do, my love, we shall have to keep a close watch on her tonight, lest some flower prince, some fairy knight, comes and whisks her away to his realm," she says, resting her own hands around Sansa's waist so that she knows the other women japes, and that her words are also true - they shall not let her be taken away by _anyone_ , even if they are handsome like she used to believe Joffrey was until she met those who are far more handsome, whose inner goodness was reflected truly in their outer charm.

Sir Daemon is wearing the usual evening attire, though with a mask across half of his face done in colours of orange and black, and he takes Ellaria's arm and Prince Oberyn Sansa's and they depart for the carriage and the ride to the mansion. The Martells have informed her again that there shall be no Lannisters in attendance, and also that the Chancellor of the Exchequer is travelling further north and shall not be there to corner her.

 

The ball is as enchanting as the last, even more so for all the splendid costumes its guests are wearing. It is quite fun to guess the identity of both the costume and its wearer with Prince Oberyn and Ellaria, and also to listen to them speak of gossip and make slightly rude comments about some of the guest's attire.

Prince Oberyn invites her to dance a waltz with him again, and she is delighted to do so. He is such a _wonderful_ dancer, such an exceptional partner; she feels as light as air, and as fragile and beautiful as one of her flowers, in his arms.

He has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, quite scandalously, and occasionally the skin of his arm will brush against the bare skin of her neck and back, and make her shiver. And when he murmurs to her, his lips meet the skin of her ear once or twice, sending a pleasant shudder right down to her toes.

She could dance with him forever; and she cannot help but hope, wistfully and in vain, that she might have a husband half as handsome and gallant as Prince Oberyn one day.

She dances with Sir Daemon too, who seems just as good a dancer as his friend, _and_ as handsome, and yet strangely he does not inspire the same feeling of warmth in her, and she finds herself longing for the arms of her prince instead.

Ellaria and Prince Oberyn make a truly shocking, scandalous, and utterly handsome couple on the dance floor. An elderly woman was so alarmed at the sight of them that she fainted clean to the floor and had to be revived with smelling salts! And yet, Sansa thinks, would it not be a duller ball without them, do people not _enjoy_ being scandalised sometimes.

 

Sansa is cornered at the halfway point of the evening, not by a man she dislikes this time, but by the Lady Margaery Tyrell, who was a brief kind friend of hers when she first came to King's Landing and who she has always found very charming.

Margaery greets her fondly and they talk about the ball and compliment each other's costumes - Margaery has come as a pink rose, her skirts cleverly tucked and pinned to give the appearance of its petals.

Sansa has noticed that Margaery seems quite flushed, and that she has been taking many sips from her large wineglass; and her hand is very warm in Sansa's when she takes it and pulls her into the corridor to stand near a large potted fern. Sansa wonders what Margaery has brought her here to say, but before she can gather her thoughts, Margaery leans closer.

"You are looking so enchanting since you left the Lannisters," Margaery says, her breath smelling of sweet wine, "your face, your form, your spirit. Sansa, may I kiss you?"

 _I beg your pardon?_ she wants to say, but the other girl is too quick, leaning forward and pressing her plush lips to Sansa's, _kissing her_ , using her _tongue_ to lick just inside Sansa's mouth, _sucking_ on her bottom lip. And then abruptly Margaery pulls back, and stands there blushing; as if she is quite bewitched, affected, by the kiss, _by Sansa_.

Sansa looks down at herself. It is not possible, even were Margaery _very_ in her cups as she suspects, for her to mistake Sansa for a handsome man, a man that _surely_ Margaery believes she has _actually_ been kissing.

Sansa's face feels very warm and her insides are fluttering strangely.

"I fear that I am too much in my cups, my lady," Margaery says with a breathy giggle and a high laugh, "I must find my brother to escort me home. My lady," she says, and curtseys.

Sansa curtseys too, baffled, and her hand rises to her lips the moment Margaery is gone, her mind shocked to stillness.

Is this something that people _do –_ do ladies sometimes kiss _other ladies?_ Surely Sansa would have heard about this before; but she has been so sheltered from lovemaking and other more...cultured activities, that she cannot be certain.

All through the rest of the evening, Sansa thinks about kisses, and tries not blush, tries to concentrate on her dance partners and answer their polite questions, tries not to look at the other beautiful women in the room and wonder what it might be like to kiss _them_.

It is a long night.

Ellaria must notice her daze because she asks Sansa, when the night is drawing to a close, whether she has not enjoyed herself, why she looks so perturbed, and Sansa has to reply that she is only tired - a _lie_ , she could dance until dawn - and Ellaria says that they shall take a room upstairs to sleep in for a few hours before they leave for home.

Sansa protests that she is quite alright to leave now, but Ellaria shall not hear of it, she brushes the loose curls back from Sansa's face and looks at her with such concern.

But Sansa isn't looking at her kind eyes, she is looking at Ellaria's flushed lips.

What if it had been _Ellaria_ who had kissed her earlier?

She is quite overcome at the thought, and stumbles on the first step of the stairs so that the woman in question has to tug her tightly to her, with Prince Oberyn hovering behind lest she should fall.

"Time for to sleep in her bower," Prince Oberyn murmurs and she turns to see him looking fond, his eyes twinkling with gentle mirth.

Her eyes fix on _his_ lips now, and then dart to the sliver of his skin bared by his costume. Perhaps a nap will do her good, she thinks, flushed and flustered.

Sansa takes one bed in the handsome bedchamber; Ellaria and Prince Oberyn the other, somewhat scandalising her; and Sir Daemon drags the wingback chair to set against the door and sleep there to guard the room.

 

Despite not feeling tired, she quickly succumbs to sleep and is woken, just as dawn peeks its way into the room, by Ellaria gentling stroking the backs of her fingers down Sansa's cheek and calling her name.

She smiles as she wakes and stretches, feeling warm and safe. Her life with the Lannisters truly only feels like a bad dream now, almost as if it is something that happened to some other Sansa.

They leave the mansion quietly, the first of the nighttime guests to leave, and Sansa is pleased at that, for she has loosened her corset and the ties on her dress, and she feels a little rumpled.

The carriage stops halfway through its journey, When Prince Oberyn and Sir Daemon decide they simply _must_ have a morning swim in the bathing ponds they have visited before in the woods nearby.

Sansa agrees with Ellaria that it shall be nice to stretch their legs and walk around the woods about the pond, although it is too cold, to her mind, to swim (and she should be shy of swimming with any men closeby, anyways)

The two men go haring off like little boys into the woods and Ellaria takes her arm, and they stroll undrneath the pleasant shade of the woods, breathing in the green freshness of the morning.

Ellaria stops a little while later and says she should like to sit awhile on the low-hanging branch of a tree that forms a natural bench, but Sansa wishes to wander a little longer. After promising Ellaria she shall call out loud if she gets lost, she ventures further into the forest.

Sansa finds herself unwittingly following the sounds of water and splashing; and she soon comes upon the pond, though for some reason she does not venture out into the open but instead remains hidden behind the foliage that she peeks through to look at the scene.

Evidently, the pond is shallow in parts, because Prince Oberyn and Sir Daemon are both only standing up to their thighs in water; and they are utterly _nude_.

Sansa claps a hand across her mouth in shock at the amount of skin bared – brown and firm and almost glowing in the sunlight. She simply does not know where to _look_.

Her eyes glance across their muscular forms; she has never thought of a man's... _backside_ before but theirs are very... _pleasing_.

She feels as warm as on a hot summer's day. She should really not be spying on them like this, it is very unladylike of her.

But then they wrestle with one another, kicking up water and laughing, and _turn around_ so that she can see _their fronts.  
_

She clasps her other hand across the first over her mouth.

She has only ever seen her brothers unclothed before, and that was when they were little boys. Is _this_ what men look like underneath their clothes, surely _every_ man cannot wander around with a...part such as _that_ in their breeches, of such a... _size_ , it would be _obscene_.

She fans herself with her hand, and then plucks a large leaf to use as a fan as if that might help her cool down.

She knows that she does not know the exact _details_ of what occurs when a husband and a wife come together; but she is quite, _quite_ , flustered at the thought of a man's...of _that_ being a part of it.

Attempting to compose herself, she turns and hurries back towards Ellaria, pausing a little further away from the pond to catch her breath back and settle her racing heart.

Ellaria had once said that Sansa may ask her any question at all, and she has been kind whenever Sansa _has_ asked her a question, even if the question has, on reflection, been foolish.

Perhaps it is time now to ask Ellaria about a subject matter that Sansa does not know the first thing about. Surely she shall not be angry that Sansa is curious, for she does not have an older female relative to ask after all, and her mind is quite whirling with thoughts and questions and _imaginings_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, I would love to know what people think!
> 
> I cannot believe how purple this prose has gotten, but it is exceedingly fun to write.
> 
> Also, god bless Margaery for showing Sansa the lady-loving light.
> 
> The next chapter, A Fever: in which Ellaria educates Sansa, Sansa drives Oberyn almost to breaking point, there is another ball (can there ever be too many balls, I think not), and our original villain finally makes his reappearance...
> 
> my tumblr: framboise-fics


	8. A Fever

 

 

Oberyn is suffering from a fever, and Sansa Stark is to blame.

He almost swoons when Ellaria comes to him and tells him that Sansa has asked her questions about kissing women, about _lying_ with women, and reports that the beautiful Margaery Tyrell had kissed her at the last ball - such a sight he is very sad not to have seen himself, though when he expresses this to Ellaria she slaps him on the arm with her fan.

"Might you lead the conversation onwards to kissing _men_ next time, my love?" he asks, after apologising for being a poor example of his sex.

"What if she only wishes to kiss women?" Ellaria says.

His brow creases in agony, and then she whacks him on the arm _again_ with her fan; she is a passionate woman, his paramour.

"I jape, I have seen her looking at you," she says, "I have seen her blush at the kisses you leave on her hand."

He cannot hide his broad smile at that.

"She also mentioned spying on you and Daemon bathing the other day, and being quite _startled_ by the size of your manhood,”

A good startled? He knows that the gods have blessed him in that area, but he should not like to _frighten_ the poor maiden.

"You shall have to be gentle, if you ever lay with her," Ellaria says teasingly.

"I shall be however she wants me to be," he declares, hand over his heart, "If she wants to walk over me in sharp heeled boots then I shall gladly submit to her tender cruelties."

"I do not think this is the form events shall take," Ellaria says, and then her brow creases with confusion, "I thought that you said that you were not a man who had any particular feelings about ladies footwear?"

"I am not, I was describing something I would not particularly enjoy, it was a rhetorical device,"

He frowns and Ellaria frowns too.

"But if _you_ should like to walk on me–"

"No one is walking over anyone!" Ellaria says and then starts laughing, covering her face with her hands until he pulls them away and kisses her.

"It is all moot anyways, she may never want to share our bed," he says, trying not to pout.

Yet his fever only worsens when his _dear_ paramour informs him that she has lent their innocent ward a stack of Lysian books from the locked cabinets of their library, and that Sansa has become a devoted _reader_.

The both of them start to notice that when Sansa descends for breakfast, she is flushed and _restless_ upon her seat, that she then wanders through the house blushing, with glazed eyes; fingers brushing against walls and doorways and ornaments as if she is trying to seduce the house itself; that she uses her fan in even the coolest of rooms, wafting air across red cheeks and a neck sheened prettily with perspiration.

Oberyn knows that… _self-exploration_ is important, but gods does he wish he was there to observe; gods does he wish that he might only help to _soothe_ her particular fever. For he has the strong notion that the remedy to both their fevers lies in the same solution.

And the very worst of it is that a week ago, Lady Sansa Stark had reached her majority.

Oberyn fears he shall not survive this sweet, sweet torture; that he shall soon burn to ashes.

 

The morning of Sansa's birthday was the same morning they had received word that Cersei had died, of a rumoured overindulgence of laudanum; an excellent gift from the gods for the birthday girl, though they had decided not to tell her of it until the next day, for fear it might upset her, for she is such a kind-hearted girl she will likely mourn that veritable monster, even after everything she has done.

His daughters have made Sansa a veritable cornucopia of gifts - embroidered handkerchiefs, drawings, even the musical score of a song – and they are so excited they wake up early and come tumbling into Sansa's room, crowding around her bed, while Ellaria and Oberyn look on fondly from the door.

Oberyn and Ellaria give two of their presents to Sansa after breakfast. A golden frame for her mother's sampler – which makes Sansa bursts into tears when she sees it and hug Ellaria tightly, press a kiss to Oberyn's cheek which makes him blush like a maiden. And a darling white puppy - which makes Sansa cry again, but with such a sweet smile, and when she presses the dog's face with tender kisses Oberyn cannot help but find himself a little jealous.

For their third gift, they lead into Oberyn's office and place her behind his desk. Ellaria puts a consoling hand on her shoulder as Oberyn brings out the papers he has collected from the clerks office. The deeds to Winterfell and the Stark lands, now in her name.

Sansa is quite overcome.

He does not tell her that he has personally paid off the creditors which the wretched Lannisters had indebted Winterfell to - a large sum for any noble man, but a pittance for a prince – and he shall never tell her if he can help it.

He crouches down next to the desk where Sansa sits, silently crying, her fingers brushing back and forth along the papers.

"Winterfell Manor has yet to be rebuilt after its destruction," he says, "and Ellaria and I, and our daughters, should dearly like for you to remain with us until it is, for you are an indispensable member of our household and we take the greatest joy in your company. But you have reached your majority now, and you may go wherever you wish, you may live with whomever you wish, and thus we will gladly aid you in finding a satisfactory situation if you shall not wish to remain here."

She takes his hand and holds it between two of hers, while Ellaria strokes her hair, "Oh, I should wish to stay here, if you shall only have me! My heart would wish for nothing more! I have been the happiest living here, and you have both been so kind, too kind-"

"It is our pleasure to see to your happiness," Ellaria says.

"I do not think I shall ever be able to express my thanks, my unending gratitude, for your care, for that night at the Lannisters, for everything you have done," Sansa says, voice thick with tears.

"You deserve all this and far more, my dear Sansa," Oberyn says, and kisses her on the forehead.

A little while later, once Sansa has composed herself, he tells her that he is still on the hunt for the lost Stark fortune and that he is hopeful that this will be recovered soon, so that she may rebuild Winterfell to its former glory.

He does not tell her that he has now discovered part of the Lannisters plan - a coal mine that would uproot Winterfell forest, and blemish the entirety of her lands. He takes great delight that he has thwarted Tywin's plan, and hopes that the other man is sick with rage. Oberyn's explorations at the clerks office had also unearthed more Lannister debts, cleverly hidden, and he has sent anonymous _concerned_ letters to the different creditors. He hopes this is just the beginning of the downfall of that House.

 

They decide to attend another ball, to celebrate Sansa's birthday and her new status, although Oberyn only realises that this is a dangerous plan when he sees her descend the staircase arm in arm with Ellaria that evening, with her flushed cheeks, and the acres of her bare décolletage, her tiny waist, and the pile of glorious auburn curls atop her head.

Another night of Sansa dancing in his arms, of her looking beautiful and radiant, of her staring up at him with those big blue eyes. How is he to bear it?

"You like quite in agony, my love," Ellaria whispers in his ear.

"Are you not similarly pained?" he asks.

"I can hide it better," she says, "and as a member of my _delicate_ sex, I am allowed to carry around a fan and swoon,"

"She blushes at us as if she might devour us," he murmurs. "If this is not a practised form, a knowing look, then truly Ellaria, Sansa has been sent to Westeros by the gods to vex all mankind. How can a seductress such as her live in such an innocent-looking form?"

 

*

 

At the ball, Sansa observes the handsome men and women of the ton, and watches them as they dance and make merry. She might kiss anyone here, she thinks, she might feel the plush press of their lips on hers. She sucks her own bottom lip at the thought, wetting it, her hand absently running back and forth across her décolletage.

But the handsomest pair in attendance is unquestionably Ellaria and Prince Oberyn; and to her shame, Sansa has been thinking about both of them, in intimate ways – what _kissing_ Prince Oberyn might be like, what _touching_ Ellaria should be like.

She has been wandering around in a feverish daze since Ellaria educated her in the ways of men and women, and _women_ and women, and men and _men_! Truly, she had no idea that there were such combinations of relationships, of intimacies, and some of the _pictures_ in the Lysian books-!

She smooths a hand down her stomach. She should not think of this sort of _subject_ when she is in polite company.

But oh, now that she _knows_ what happens in the bedchamber she can think of little else! Even more so now that Ellaria has informed her that no one shall be able to tell if her maidenhead is broken, that many women come to the marriage beds without it from horse riding too vigorously, or some _other_ event.

Sansa's mother would be rolling over in her grave at the manner of thoughts which Sansa is currently considering, the new notion that she shall not _have_ to wait until marriage to be intimate with another person, her burgeoning intention that she _shall not_ wait.

But who could be her partner? She should like to trust them first, maybe even love them, for she still has such a tender heart. But she only truly loves Ellaria and Prince Oberyn, and they already have one another, and Sansa should die before she split them asunder with some childish infatuation, a selfishness to feel her own pleasure at their cost of their happiness.

When she dances another waltz with Prince Oberyn, her desire for him; the knowledge that she shall never be able to touch him, lay with him; feels unbearable, and her chest is tight with longing, her breath short.

He must be able to tell that she is troubled, because he says that she looks as if she needs some air, and she agrees.

He leads her outside, and the crisp night air makes her shiver; though it does little to cool her ardour, with Prince Oberyn standing so close, still holding her hand in his.

She can feel the warmth of his body even now, still feel his arms around her form as they were when they were dancing,

"My lady," he says, "Sansa," she watches as he swallows and then her eyes fix on his lips, and she cannot help but bite her own.

"Sansa," he repeats, his tone one of agony, and then he takes her face in his hand and kisses her.

Oh, she is quite _overcome_ – the firm motion of his lips, the touch of his tongue, the _taste_ of him. She has never even _dreamed_ that a kiss could be like this, it is as though her body is consumed with flames of pleasure, and she can scarcely catch her breath.

But Ellaria! She pulls away and covers her mouth with her hand.

"I cannot do this," she gasps, "I cannot hurt dear Ellaria," she says and then she picks up her skirts and runs away from him, away from her own shameful actions, back into the house, dashing through the corridors until she finds an empty room.

She closes the door and leans against it, heart racing.

But the room is not as empty as it appeared, for a voice from her nightmares suddenly speaks from behind her, and chills her heart in fear and alarm.

"Ah, there she is, my former betrothed, and looking lovelier than ever," Joffrey says, "I think you shall stop this nonsense with the Red Viper and his whore, and come home now," he announces, moving closer, as she turns and stares at his monstrous visage.

She cannot speak, her voice feels stopped up.

"It would only be for the best, for it is clear now that you simply cannot look after yourself without finding trouble. I have always known, my lady, that you needed a firm hand," he says, and snaps out a hand to grip her wrist before she can run away.

But just when she has resigned herself to some terrible fate, the door to the room _bursts_ open and hits the wall with an almighty crash.

"Unhand her, you cur!" Prince Oberyn says, standing in the doorway, looking like the Warrior made flesh.

Then he rips a glove from his hand and throws it at Joffrey's feet, and Sansa gasps with horror.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, I would love to hear what people think!
> 
> The subject matter of the next chapter, The Duel, is quite self-explanatory...


	9. The Duel

 

 

 

Her eyes are fixed on the glove on the floor by her feet, on Prince Oberyn's challenge. But when she finally looks up, she observes that the man himself is glaring at Joffrey, whose hand is still firm about her wrist, despite her attempts to tug herself away from him; and Sansa fears that the duel may begin immediately, that Prince Oberyn will attack the Marquis in this very room, and in the middle of a _ball_!

But then something is thrown from behind her and it hits Joffrey's head with a blow that jolts him forward in alarm, and his grip softens and she is free, and she runs over to Prince Oberyn.

Prince Oberyn takes her into the welcome shelter of his arms, and she glances back to see that it was Ellaria's fan which had felled Joffrey, and that it has left a sore red mark which he rubs at, his face creased like a little boy suffering a fit.

"You witch!" Joffrey shouts at Ellaria, "You Haymarket ware!"

"You stall-whimper fatwit, you slubber degullion!" Ellaria shouts back, hands on her hips.

But their exchange of insults is soon interrupted by the arrival of others, drawn by the commotion.

"What the devil is going on in here?" Tywin says, appearing out of the crowd.

"I have challenged the Marquis to a duel, on behalf of the Lady Stark to whom he has treated quite abominably," Prince Oberyn announces, loosening his hold on her so Sansa may stand beside him in a more appropriate fashion.

Tywin's face seems to go quite pale, and then he glances at Joffrey with such fury it makes Sansa's step back towards her protector.

"I have accepted his challenge," Joffrey says, holding up Oberyn's glove.

"You stupid boy," his grandfather hisses at him. "The terms?" he asks Prince Oberyn.

"Swords, at dawn, in the usual place in the clearing of the King's Forest, and to the death."

A woman in the crowd gasps and faints at Oberyn's words. Sansa feels like fainting too but she cannot, for he has a warm arm about her shoulder holding her up.

Prince Oberyn _cannot_ do this on her behalf, and to the _death_! Oh, if she is the one _responsible_ for his death she shall _never_ forgive herself. To think that his sweet daughters may be without a father!

"You cannot do this, my prince," she whispers to him, "Oh, you cannot! Please, sir, do not do this on my behalf!"

"Hush, my lady," he says, not unkindly, brushing a thumb down her cheek. "Ellaria and I shall explain all in the carriage."

Oh, but Ellaria! How is she to face her! How has this perfect evening become one from a nightmare.

After Joffrey and Prince Oberyn shake on their agreement, naming their seconds - Sir Daemon Sand for the prince and a man named Gregor Clegane for Joffrey - Sansa is soon whisked away into the carriage.

The moment the door shuts and the horses dash away, Sansa turns to Prince Oberyn again, "Please, my prince, you cannot do this. If something should befall you–!"

"My lady, I have never lost a duel. All shall be well, I promise you."

"But there was no need to challenge him on my behalf!"

"There was every need, my lady, for the abominable way he treated you when you were but a ward in his house, for grabbing onto your person presently and frightening you. I have all the cause in the world."

"Oberyn speaks true, he was right to challenge the Marquis, and he has never lost a duel, my lady, he leaves behind him a trail of wounded men."

"Oh, Ellaria, I am not worth duelling over, I am not an _honourable_ woman-!"

"Be calm, my lady, and do not fret. If what has you so perturbed is the kiss Oberyn bestowed on you tonight, then I tell you that I already know and I am far from angry."

"This cannot be so," Sansa says, tearfully, shaking her head. Ellaria is simply being kind. She should not _have_ to be kind to a woman who has committed a kind of _adultery_ with her paramour.

"I know that Prince Oberyn cares for you very much, that he loves you very much, desires you. As do I."

"I beg pardon, my lady, I do not understand." Sansa shakes her head again, she is liable to make herself dizzy, but then perhaps Ellaria's confusing words shall do that without her head needing to move an inch.

"Sansa, dear, did you not look at the Lysian book with the red cover?"

Sansa _did_ look at that book, it is a favourite of hers. She blushes, and nods, not understanding _why_ Ellaria is mentioning it now.

"The groups of three in that book, in the illustrations; do you recall that they were always composed of one man and two women?"

Sansa nods again.

"Sansa, Oberyn and I should dearly wish to be with you like that. The _three_ of us _together_ , should you wish it. But if you do not then we shall never mention it again, never touch you in any way, nor make you feel uncomfortable. We shall love you as a friend, and nothing more."

"We did not wish to make you feel pressured, or obligated, my dear Sansa," Prince Oberyn says, adding his voice to the conversation.

He takes one of her hands and Ellaria the other from across the carriage.

Sansa feels quite speechless and overwhelmed, but her _body_ feels as if it has been sparked into flame.

To think that both of them might want _her_ , that she does not have to _choose_ , that she might have them _both_!

But oh, she cannot think of it now, when there is a duel to the _death_ to be fought!

"We shall discuss this later, tomorrow, and we shall answer any question you might have, dear Sansa," Ellaria says.

"Thank you, my lady," Sansa says, retreating to courtesies because her mind feels quite shaken. "But what of the duel? It _cannot_ go ahead, it simply cannot," she begs.

"My lady," Prince Oberyn says, "the Lannisters must pay for all they have done. This is not simply an act of vengeance towards Joffrey, but his grandfather too," he heaves a heavy sigh, and looks away from her. He has such a regal profile; akin to a painting of the great heroes of the histories.

"I had not wished to tell you this because I know that you have a delicate nature," he says, "but Duke Tywin and the Lannisters have caused my family the gravest of insults, have performed the most reprehensible of actions. My late, and dearest, sister Elia was married to Duke Targaryen when the Lannisters helped forge a despicable plot to have him marry another instead, amongst the upheaval of the revolution. They poisoned Elia, they poisoned her and her child and her babe in the womb. They poisoned her and told me when I arrived too late–"

He shakes his head and she can see tears slide down his cheeks, and he coughs to clear his throat.

Sansa is crying too, her heart breaking at the tragic story of the prince's sister.

"-when I arrived too late, they said that she had taken a potion of her own free will to abort the babe inside of her, that _she_ was to blame for her own _murder_. A vicious lie, an outrageous _slander_. They _murdered_ her and her _children_ , it was done in cold blood," he halts, his fists are clenched in the deepest agony.

"But I have been unable to take my revenge, my lady, because of the love I bear my family, and my country, because I could not be seen to attack them whilst they ruled King's Landing. And yet, the tide has since turned, the midnight clock has chimed, their debts are being called in, and _now_ is the moment I will get my revenge. I will snuff out the future of Tywin's blood just as they ended that of Elia."

"So you see, Sansa," Ellaria says as the carriage pulls in to the house, "It is not just on your behalf that Oberyn duels Joffrey this morning. It is an event long wished for."

"I understand," Sansa says, "and I wish you the might of the Warrior in your task, my prince."

"Thank you Sansa," Prince Oberyn says, kissing her on the back of her hand, before jumping out of the carriage.

 

Sansa wishes to remain awake with Prince Oberyn and Ellaria in vigil that night but they urge her to rest and swear they shall wake her a few hours before dawn. The dramatic events of the day send her quickly to sleep and then she is roused by Ellaria as promised.

It is not the done thing for women to observe a duel, the thought is positively shocking, but Ellaria says that she and Sansa will wear dark cloaks and hide in the trees near the clearing to watch, and Sansa agrees, even though she knows it is terribly barbaric of her.

They leave an hour before dawn and the mood in the carriage is sombre but resolute. Sir Daemon Sand carries the prince's foils and, Sansa notices, also has a pistol hidden underneath his jacket. Ellaria has a pistol too, and Sansa is afeared as to why they might require them, and yet she also knows that the Martells would never let any harm come to her. If something should happen to Prince Oberyn, though the possibility is very slim, she knows that Ellaria will avenge him and not let Sansa be taken again by the Lannisters.

The carriage stops a few moments away from the clearing for Sansa and Ellaria to exit and hurry into the trees, and in no time at all they have found their spot and are peering through the foliage to the clearing beyond.

 

*

 

Oberyn could finish Joffrey with a single slash of his sword, dearly wishes to, but this is meant to be a duel, not a murder, although of course it is that too; so he must toy with the cur first, watch him sneer and wave his sword around in mimicry of his tiny manhood.

The seconds call out the beginning of the duel and Oberyn sets his jaw and thinks, _for Elia and her children, for Sansa, for Dorne_ , and he thrusts his foil forward.

He slashes; he parries; he twirls as if he is performing a ritual dance for the gods to watch, perhaps he is. Joffrey hacks at him with his sword, spits nonsense curses, mentions Sansa's name, but Oberyn is like the snake of his namesake, he will not be distracted from his quarry.

Finally, he has had enough, and with a lunge and a single slash, carves across the boy's neck so that blood spurts out like an abattoir's fountain and he crumples to the floor in a heap.

Oberyn watches dispassionately as he chokes on his own blood, as Tywin and the other observers fall forward in alarm, as Joffrey dies.

Then he hears the cock of a pistol close by and sees that Gregor Clegane, the man they call the Mountain, who he believes was the one to feed Elia her poison, has fixed the aim of his gun on Oberyn.

But he is not alarmed.

For Oberyn trusts in his paramour who, earlier this evening when he was rather occupied with kissing a fair maiden, found her way outside the ball with a cup of poisoned wine for the Lannister coachman. A poison that is now – he observes as the Mountain's hand wavers, as he stumbles – taking its effect.

Thus, Oberyn does not need to whip out his own pistol and shoot anyone, and this duel is won fair and according to the terms all agreed.

Oberyn takes his leave from the scene, striding towards the carriage with Daemon; eager for home.

Death is not a thing he relishes bringing to another human creature, to take pleasure in it would be to disrespect the gods and their gift of life. Joffrey's murder was but a necessity, a debt repaid.

 

*

 

Sansa felt she should faint while watching the duel, her heart was in her throat so, and her teeth were chattering so loudly she feared someone might hear and discover their subterfuge. Yet Ellaria's tight hold on her hands keeps her upright, and she will not look away from the duel which is being fought partly on her own behalf.

When Joffrey is felled she feels a great relief, but then his second aims a pistol at Prince Oberyn! Yet Ellaria whispers in her ear that all will be well for she has poisoned the man at the ball, and then, once they have watched the large man fall to the ground, the two women hurry back towards the path so that the carriage may stop and collect them.

Sansa hugs Prince Oberyn fiercely when she enters the carriage and he hugs her back, kissing her on the side of her cheek. And then he kisses Ellaria, and with such passion that Sansa blushes, though she cannot look away.

The rest of the ride is quiet, contemplative, but when they reach the house, the household is in a state of great industry, servants and porters running hither and thither carrying chests and boxes and all manner of things, and Ellaria hurries in, calling the names of her daughters.

"What on earth is happening?" Sansa gasps.

"My daughters are returning home to Dorne," Prince Oberyn says, "for their own safety, though they will be glad to see the back of this place, I am sure. They have missed their homeland dearly."

"Their safety?"

Prince Oberyn nods, he has not let go of her hand since the carriage. "This is something that we have planned for, for a long time. It is easier to protect a small household, and they shall be far safer in Dorne from the final death throes of the Lannister curs."

Quicker than Sansa can fathom, the carriages are loaded, the boxes and chests are stowed away, and the Sand Snakes are lined up at the door to say farewell to their parents.

Prince Oberyn and Ellaria spend a few moments with each girl, and then the Sand Snakes demand farewells from Sansa too and her arms are almost sore from their hugs by the time she has reached little Loreza at the end.

She feels sad to see them go, the house quieter already as they trail away.

"We hope you shall be father and mother’s paramour by the time we see you next!" Dorea calls back, and Sansa blushes deeply.

"Do visit us in Dorne!" Tyene adds.

And then all is silent, and the door is locked.

Sansa turns to Oberyn and Ellaria who stand there in turn, as if waiting for her; and the conversation in the carriage the evening before comes roaring back into her mind; and her body, her belly, and somewhere lower than that, begins to quiver.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, I would love to hear what people think!
> 
> The next (and final!) chapter, A Conclusion, will be posted soon...
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)


	10. A Conclusion

 

 

"A drink in the drawing room now, I think," Ellaria suggests; glancing between Sansa, who appears to be almost vibrating with lust, and Oberyn, who fares little better.

If Ellaria did not say anything, then the two of them would likely remain here for the rest of the night - Sansa too timid to ask for what she dearly wishes, and Oberyn too afeared of offending her maidenly sensibilities. It is lucky for them that Ellaria can manage to keep a cool head in these situations; for famed seducer though the Red Viper is, he sometimes has something of the reluctant maiden about him too but from his sense of chivalry instead of hesitance at any unknown, since Ellaria does not think that there is any type of bedsport he has not personally, and enthusiastically, participated in.

"Capital plan, Ellaria," the man in question says; and then gives her a knowing, thankful, look. "Some wine, my lady?" he asks Sansa, holding out his arm for her to place her hand on.

They really do make an attractive twosome, Ellaria thinks, as they move towards the drawing room, and she has thought so since the start – her pale skin and red hair next to Oberyn's tanned skin and black hair is simply marvellous. If Ellaria were an artist she would like to paint a portrait of the two of them together, but since she is not, she shall have to do the next best thing, and place herself in between the two of them in a far more _intimate_ setting than a painter's studio.

Oberyn stalks across to the wine on the side cabinet, and pours the three of them healthy amounts. Ellaria watches as he downs the entirety of his cup and then pours another.

"Thirsty work, duelling?" Ellaria asks.

"Indeed," Oberyn says. The wine has made his lips purple and she walks over to kiss him, licking the taste from the inside of his mouth as he clutches her to him tightly, the both of them hearing a shocked gasp from behind them.

Sansa learns well with visual aids, Ellaria knows; and lending her the Lysian books was a true masterstroke, if she may say so herself.

"Sansa," she says, turning around in Oberyn's arms so that he is behind her with his hands on her waist. "We were going to continue the conversation from the carriage yesterday evening."

Sansa nods. She has drunk half her cup already, her hand is fluttering over her heaving chest, and her cheeks are becomingly pink.

"Sansa," Oberyn says, the deep tone of his voice rumbling at Ellaria's back and making her body warm, "should you like to join us presently in our bedchamber upstairs?"

Now Ellaria is the one shivering, in delight, at the bald invitation of her lover. She may have earlier mocked his hesitance with maidens but equally, once he is decided on a course of action, he can be quite single-minded, quite _resolute_.

They watch as Sansa colours further and bites her lip. They wait.

"Oh, I should like nothing more!" Sansa suddenly blurts out and then covers her mouth with a hand, shocked at her boldness.

Ellaria tries not to laugh delightedly, for fear Sansa might think she mocked her.

"Is there ought you should like to discuss beforehand, or should you like to learn by doing?" Ellaria asks, pleased by the clench of Oberyn's hands on her waist. He is not the only one who can be bold.

"Oh, I think I shall die if I have to talk about it first," Sansa says.

Ellaria chooses not to make a poorly timed joke about Joffrey being the only one dying this morning. She separates from Oberyn, with a squeeze of his hand, and walks towards Sansa, whose heavy breaths are almost straining at her corset. Ellaria sits down next to her and takes her hand, strokes the back of it with the fingers of the other; Sansa has such lovely slim hands.

"May I kiss you, Sansa?"

"Yes," Sansa says, staring at her lips, eyes fluttering like a practised seducer.

Ellaria holds the side of her face softly, stroking her cheek, and then dips forward to kiss her; first a press against her plush lips, then a tiny lick, a sucking of her bottom lip. She pulls back and sees that Sansa has her eyes closed in almost rapture. A very good start. Ellaria turns back to Oberyn and he saunters closer and then sits down on the opposite side of Sansa.

"And may I kiss you too, Sansa?"

"Oh, yes," Sansa says, turning to him, and yet clutching Ellaria's hand also. A good indication, Ellaria thinks, now finally allowing herself to imagine what might occur when they reach the bedchamber together.

She watches as the two of them kiss; Oberyn's hand so large on the back of Sansa's head, and yet holding her so tenderly. Then Oberyn opens his eyes and stares hotly at Ellaria while he kisses Sansa, and Ellaria is now the one flushing and finding it hard to breathe.

"To bed then, my ladies?" Oberyn asks, and Ellaria could swoon if she were still the type of woman who swooned.

"To bed," Ellaria agrees, and then Oberyn reaches down and hoists Sansa up into his arms, making the young maiden scream with shocked delight and a laughing gasp.

"There is no fear of you fainting now, my dear," Ellaria says, stroking Sansa's hair back from her flushed face, and then standing on tiptoes to kiss her soft cheek.

Sansa flops her head back on Oberyn's shoulder. "I fear that I am already quite overcome," she says, tremulously.

"Then we must find a bed for you to recline upon, and swiftly," Oberyn teases, and Ellaria sees the corner of Sansa's mouth smile. "Shall you be content to walk up the stairs, Ellaria, or should you like me to return for you? It is my curse to only have one set of arms, you see."

Ellaria wishes she were holding her fan so that she could hit him.

"My legs will suffice, my love. Now enough dallying, and onwards," she announces instead, in the manner of an army commander and hears the delightful sound of Sansa's giggle as they make their way swiftly up the stairs, Oberyn stalking up with the intensity of a predator. Ellaria's view as she walks behind her paramour, his firm thighs in the breeches she swears gets tighter and tighter each year, is _quite_ inspiring.

 

*

 

Oberyn feels both elated and ravenous at having Sansa in his arms; a light, warm, shivering weight; and he is almost sad when he must place her down on the upholstered seat at the bottom of their bed – a bed which he had once overheard a servant say was the largest she had ever seen, an assertion which Oberyn kindly didn't correct by describing some of the beds in the orgy rooms at brothels he has experienced. This particular bed however is a perfect size for three, and no larger.

Sansa clutches the bedpost and continues to gasp heavy breaths as Ellaria shuts the door and lights the lamps in the room, filling it with a ruby-toned glow that has always had the effect on Oberyn as that of a red flag to a bull.

"Should you like help with your dress, my dear?" Ellaria asks.

Sansa nods, "I fear my corset has somehow become tighter over the last few hours."

"Indeed," Ellaria says, smiling at Oberyn from behind Sansa as she begins to pluck at the ribbons of her dress.

Since Sansa has no expertise in the undressing of men, Oberyn shall have to do it himself, a task that will also permit him to perform a kind of show for his two women, and he has always loved to be watched.

He unbuttons his jacket and watches as Sansa's eyes follow each button loosened. He peels it off his shoulders and throws it behind him.

Ellaria snorts a laugh, but he knows her better than she knows herself and her eyes are dark and delighted. Next comes the waistcoat, with its own buttons, which he then throws to land atop the jacket.

Sansa's eyes are dark, and she is biting her lip. He bends over to remove his boots - an oft-ungainly act and yet Oberyn is as practised in this as a seasoned molly house visitor should be - and then peels down his stockings. He stands up to see that Sansa's dress is in a heap at her feet and she is now in her light shift, through which he can see the pointed peaks of her breasts and the faint shadow between her thighs, before she frustratingly disappears behind Ellaria to help the other woman with her dress.

He unbuttons his shirt and lifts it over his head, knowing that the motion makes the muscles of his form look even more pleasing. Both Sansa and Ellaria are watching him as if they are starving and yet he is confident in his ability to satisfy them both, as a lesser man would not be able.

He brings his hands to his breeches, unbuttons the flap and peels them off his legs, and then, without further ado, removes his small clothes and stands as nature has made him, causing Sansa to gasp dramatically and clutch Ellaria's shoulders in shock. Oberyn cannot help but find it flattering, and does his best not to preen; yet by the raise of one of Ellaria's eyebrows, he is not too successful in this.

Then Ellaria lifts her shift off, leaving her in only her stockings, and he forgets to pose and instead his eyes graze hungrily over the well-loved contours of her own. She bends over to unpeel her stockings, her hair slipping down out of its pins, and now the only piece of clothing worn in the room is the shift upon Sansa, who is blushing and yet also not looking away from either of them, dividing her gaze between both their forms.

Oberyn steps closer. "Do you require assistance to ascend onto the bed, my lady?" he asks.

"I think I might do, my prince," she replies; and he lifts her by the hips, her shift but a thin layer between his skin and hers, and places her in the middle of the bed. He crawls up to join her on one side, whilst Ellaria takes the other.

"Do we not cover ourselves with the bed linens?" Sansa asks, faintly, as her hands flutter at her sides.

"It would not be the educating experience you desired, if we did that," Ellaria muses, moving a hand to rest on Sansa's stomach. "But if you wish to, we shall. Sansa, if you wish anything tonight - to do or not do any action – your wishes shall be heeded."

"Ellaria has the right of it, my darling," he says, stroking down Sansa's cheek, "Think of yourself as the captain of the ship of this bed, and we your humble sailors."

Sansa lifts herself up on her elbows. "Then–" she says, voice a little shaky, "–then the first thing I should like is for help with the pins in my hair."

Oberyn could groan in pleasure at her order, slight though it is, and he and Ellaria quickly get to work, unpinning the glorious thick waves of her hair, which falls through his fingers like silk.

"And what do you wish for us to do next, Sansa?"

"Next I should like for the two of you to be the captain, for I fear I am not best suited to it, and do not have the first idea what to do next!" Sansa falls back onto the bed, and lays the back of her wrist atop her forehead.

Ellaria smooths a hand across her waist, and Oberyn turns over onto his side and shifts closer to Sansa, so that his body is pressed next to hers. He watches as Sansa's breath catches at the contact.

"Do you object to your shift being removed?" he says, his voice rumbling deeper than usual.

"I do not object to that," Sansa says swiftly, her body arching at the thought.

Oberyn moves down the bed to her feet, while Ellaria leans across to kiss Sansa deeply, a hand stroking down her bare arm.

Oberyn kisses one of Sansa's pale feet, and smiles against her skin when he hears her little inhale of breath. His kisses her ankle, her shin, and then the side of her knee. He looks up to see Sansa clutching Ellaria to her, one pale hand splayed on the other woman's back. Oberyn takes the hem of Sansa's shift in his hands and begins to raise it – ever so slowly – stopping to kiss and suck at each new patch of skin, until he is at her hips and the red curls of her womanhood are uncovered, heating his blood to burning.

"Some assistance, Ellaria?" he asks, and the other woman separates from her kiss with a gasp and bruised lips.

"Certainly, my love," she says, and the two of them work together to remove the shift entirely, barely allowing themselves a moment to peruse the pale wonders of Sansa's nude form before they descend hungrily with hands and mouths.

 

*

 

Sansa believed that she was quite overcome when Oberyn had lifted her - lifted her! - into his arms, like something from a novel; and strode upstairs as if he could not wait to ravish her.

Then, she had thought that she could surely take no more when the two of them had _kissed_ her, when Ellaria untied her dress, when she untied _Ellaria's_ dress; when the two of them watched Oberyn remove his _clothes_ \- and oh, if she had been affected by the sight of Oberyn nude before in the ponds, she very almost _does_ swoon when she sees him in his... _excited_ state.

And yet, she fears she has now _truly_ reached the utmost limits of what she can abide without bursting into flames, with the two of them caressing and kissing, and _sucking_ , at her skin, touching her where only she has touched before in feverish and lonely self-adventures.

Oh, to have their warm bodies next to her, and curling over her. To clutch her hands in their hair; to find the reserves of bravery within her to touch them back, to discover how different their skin feels from hers, from each other's. To kiss Ellaria and her full lips, to be kissed by Oberyn's firm ones, to feel his panting breath in her mouth, the pleasing scrape of his stubble across her cheeks and down her neck. Her _neck_ \- she had no idea that a mouth there could feel so _pleasurable_.

And then, Ellaria takes the tip of her breast into her mouth and Sansa is even _more_ breathless, the nerves of her body _sparking_ like they are catching alight. And _then_ , Oberyn places his mouth _between her legs_ and begins to... _sup_ on her and _oh_ , Sansa shall truly die tonight, she cannot withstand such ecstasies, such delights, such _pleasure_.

 

*

 

Oberyn wakes feeling satiated, slightly achy, and very _warm,_ with two beauties lying in a heap atop of him. A very satisfying turn of events, he concludes, his smile hurting his cheeks with his contented delight.

He reaches out a hand to stroke the heavy curtain of Sansa's hair away from her angelic face and nobly restrains himself from kissing her parted pink lips, for she has been quite warn out by their intimacies, since he and Ellaria were committed to making sure she reached her pleasure many times before they let her rest. To think that the shy maiden whom he had first brought home contained such fire, such _passion_. She almost had him fearing for his potency, almost.

"I can hear your thoughts, my love," Ellaria murmurs behind him and he shifts around to hold her face in his hands. "They are quite smug," she says.

"And yours are not?" he asks.

She humphs and he kisses her pouting lips, sliding a hand across her side and up, to hold one of her perfect breasts in his hand.

But then a familiar voice calls his name from outside the door, and he sighs and falls back on the bed. "Am I not allowed to gloat for even an hour?" he whispers, "must I be called away to my lesser duties?"

"Do not worry, I shall keep her warm for you, my love," Ellaria says and oh, she shall pay for that cheek, he thinks, as he shifts a sleepy, murmuring Sansa – who surely has a siren in her ancestry so loathe he is to leave her – and leaves his bed, in order to don his shirt and banyan, and go see what Daemon wants. It had better be a matter of utmost importance, he thinks, else he shall be _quite_ vexed.

Daemon has come with news of the Lannisters – for this day has not only brought Joffrey's death, but that of Tywin too. The old man had collapsed upon returning home, his heart they said, but Daemon had heard from a servant that Tywin's doctor had known that he was ill and had been treating him for a tumour. Oberyn is pleased to hear that, if only so that he is not unfairly blamed for a poisoning, even though he was pondering just such an act after an acceptable length of time had passed since the death of the man's grandson.

And now, the only Lannister left is Tyrion; who shall be receiving the entirety of the Lannister fortune, and then leaving it later to his own son with Shae; but not before paying off some rather large debts he owes Oberyn himself. The Baratheon fortune, with Joffrey dead and Myrcella married, will now be split between Renly, who shall no doubt spend it within months on himself and his man Loras, such is his taste for finery; and the dour Stannis, the social reformer, who shall spend it all on worthy schemes that Joffrey would have sneered at, which pleases Oberyn immensely.

And yet, this is not all the news Daemon has brought. For he has in his hands a letter from a northern associate containing a sketch of two young men purported to be Brandon and Rickon Stark who are in this man's care, and a letter too written in their own untidy hands.

He shall show it to Sansa upon the morrow, allowing her to enjoy the rest of her day, and perhaps also enjoy a repeat of this morning's events should she so wish. He renters the bedroom, rips off his banyan and shirt, and dives back into bed, finding a spare sliver of space between the two dozing women.

 

*

 

Sansa wakes feel warm, safe, and deliriously happy. She cannot help the smile that blooms across her face before she has even opened her eyes. To think that a few months ago she had woken alone in a tiny attic room at the Lannisters; starved, unhappy, mistreated; and had come down the stairs in order to meet the man who had bought her. How long ago that seems, how like a different version of herself! How _lucky_ she is to have found protectors, lovers, like Oberyn and Ellaria. And oh, at the last thought, her body starts to tingle in memory of the events of earlier this morning, and she shifts her legs together to soothe the ache, just as a large warm hand slides across her bare waist and tugs her towards its owner.

"Good morning, my love," Oberyn murmurs, and kisses the back of her neck, making her warm with pleasure.

She turns over to greet him; only blushing a little at the sight of his hot gaze, and Ellaria draped across his shoulders and smiling at her.

"Are you quite satisfied with your education this morning," Ellaria says, leaning down to suck at Oberyn's neck, "or should you like to continue your studies further?"

"I am feeling _quite_ studious," Sansa admits with a smile, then breaks into a giggle as Oberyn grabs her and pulls her to him. Sansa leans across him to kiss Ellaria, and then moves back to kiss Oberyn who is pouting like a boy who has had his sweet stolen from him. It is lucky, Sansa thinks, that she has the stamina of youth, for keeping these two lovers satisfied shall certainly be a _strenuous_ occupation.

 

*

 

In the months and years to come, Sansa finds that her joy springs from an ever-abundant well – not only at her life with Ellaria and Oberyn, at being their paramour and sharing their daylight hours and their evening _rest_ – but also at the miraculous reappearance of four members of her own dear family.

First, Bran and Rickon are transported down from their hideaway in the woods of the north, and given rooms with the Martells while Winterfell is rebuilt with the Stark money that Oberyn has finally discovered and returned to them. Bran tells them all about the wise woman who has helped him with the visions that have plagued him since the great fire of Winterfell, and Sansa finds him to be as kind and thoughtful as he was as a boy. Bran eventually becomes a politician, working to untangle conspiracies taking place at the very top of government.

Oberyn is duly charmed by Rickon's wildness - a boy who was spirited away to live freely in the woods at a tender age – whilst Sansa is slightly perturbed, eager to civilise him, and yet also a little delighted by his carefree laugh and boyish manner. Rickon himself decides that Ellaria, with her wicked laughter and indulgent kindness, is an acceptable mother substitute and deigns to be dressed by her in fancy clothes instead of the furs he arrived in, at least most of the time.

And then, Arya herself – her dearest sister who she finds that she has missed most out of all of her siblings – reappears with an extraordinary tale to tell. Arya had been smuggled out of Winterfell Manor before the fire by a loyal servant and had found passage on a ship disguised as a _cabin boy_ , to Sansa's great alarum. Arya is awash with stories about all the adventures she has seen, most of them occurring with a loyal young man called Gendry by her side. Sansa eventually encourages Arya to marry Gendry, after Oberyn invests in his smithy and bribes Arya with a new fencing tutor and a whole rack of foils.

And even Jon, her half-brother and yet not half a brother in her heart, returns, and in the strangest of fashions. He was lost at sea and found by a rich eccentric woman named Melisandre of Asshai who retrieved him from the shore and restored him to life and health with the spa waters from a spring on her land. Jon is immensely thankful to return to his family, and has little to say about his time with his wealthy benefactor, but is eager to hear all of the other stories. Once Winterfell is rebuilt, he takes Rickon back north, for they all agree that it would be cruel to separate their youngest brother from his much-loved northern forest, and sets out to restore the estate to its former glory so that it may once again employ its full complement of local villagers.

And Sansa? Why Sansa really does swoon when Prince Oberyn Martell asks her to be his lawful wife, and Ellaria's wife also in truth, and to voyage with them back to a life in Dorne. Sansa has spent half her life in the south and though she shall never lose her love, her hearth, in the North, she wishes now to find a new home somewhere away from the ton and the small-mindedness of King's Landing. The moment she is revived from her faint she tells Oberyn _yes_ , yes, she shall be his wife, and Ellaria's too, and her heart feels fit to burst.

Dorne is full of endless delights, and she is thrilled to be reunited with the Sand Snakes, who are equally delighted by her new marriage. The _clothes_ in Dorne, the _food_ and _music_ , and stunning vistas, the _people_ and the towns and deserts and coastlands, the _colours_ and smells, the sensation of light silks resting upon one's limbs and the _warmth_ of the sun on one's shoulders. Oberyn owns several palaces - several palaces! her childhood self is giddy with excitement - filled with magnificent art, sumptuous furnishings, more rooms than she can count, and the most marvellously comfortable beds...

 

*

 

As Oberyn holds his new twin babes in his arms, their blue eyes staring at him wondrously, he hums to them and strolls back and forth across the balcony of his palace in Dorne; the soft susurration of his dear wife's snoring, and the sleepy murmurs of his paramour lying next to her, drifting out of the curtained door nearby.

Sansa, through her now-severed connection to the Lannisters, has brought him and Ellaria the peace of a long-desired revenge fulfilled. But his wife has carried with her a far greater gift than that - for her presence has also engendered in her lovers an endless happiness and a joy that fills their heart to almost bursting.

Prince Oberyn Martell, The Red Viper, has never in his life been so happy at his skill at cards, as to have won such a game of Loo, and to part with but a few coins in the endeavour to save Sansa. To free her, so that she might find her way back into their arms, their hearts, and their bed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and commenting! :D It's been a really fun journey and your suggestions and excitement have kept me going in my first attempt at posting a WIP.
> 
> I finally made a rebloggable photoset for this fic on my tumblr [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/166076560907/the-red-viper-notorious-rake-and-gambler)
> 
> Also, I figured I'd ask while I've got you all here - are there any particular Oberyn/Sansa or Oberyn/Sansa/Ellaria AUs you want to read? I can't promise I'll write any of them, but I'd love to hear some suggestions :D
> 
> I'll be posting the beginning of a new multichaptered canon-divergent fic - A Second Life \- in a few days; in which Oberyn saves Sansa from King's Landing, but the manner of her saving has lifelong repercussions...
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)


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